


The Cabin, and What Happened After

by Rosa_abo (Rosawyn)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bathing/Washing, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Discussion of Abortion, Dubious Consent, Everyone Needs A Hug, Gender Issues, Knotting, Knotting Dildos, Like seriously he's the best, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Moving In Together, Multi, Natasha Is a Good Bro, Nick Fury is a Good Boss, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Polyamory Negotiations, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Secrets, Sexism, Unplanned Pregnancy, Vaginal Sex, eventual polyamory, first heat, probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-26 15:48:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 78,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6246010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosawyn/pseuds/Rosa_abo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Steve and Brock are at a secluded cabin, and Brock unexpectedly goes into heat, Steve isn't really sure what to do.  To be fair, this <i>is</i> the first time he's ever had to help someone through a heat—and also, since when was Brock not actually a beta?!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“All right, Bucky, I'll let him know,” Steve said then hung up the phone. Flopping down on the couch, he switched to texting and sent to Brock:

_Bucky asked me to let you know he can't make it this weekend – work stuff._

After a moment, Brock texted back:

_Geez._

Then:

_That sucks. It's just you and me left, hey?_

Then:

_Since Sam and Maria ditched us, and Nat couldn't go right from the start... You know, I had this thing planned from a month ago for a REASON. You all were supposed to fall in line. :P_

Making a face that was half grin, half grimace, Steve replied:

_Sorry. That's just how it goes._

Brock sent back:

_For sure. So what do you want to do? Cancel the whole thing and try to reschedule when people have less on their plates, or go ahead with just us two?_

Steve rolled his shoulders a bit then sent:

_I'm still up for it if you are – I'm fine with either._

Brock replied:

_Cool. Well, since I've already got the food and everything, might as well do it?_

Steve smiled and sent:

_Sure._

He stood up from the couch then paused and sent another text:

_Since it's just us, there's not point in using two vehicles – would be a waste of gas._

Neither Steve nor Bucky had a car, but Sam did, and he'd said they could use it for the weekend. But it wasn't needed anymore.

Steve had walked into his bedroom when Brock replied:

_So you want me to pick you up then?_

Sitting down on the edge of his bed next to his packed duffel bag, Steve replied:

_Sure. I can be ready in an hour if that still works for you._

Thinking better of it, he clarified:

_I can be ready in 10, actually, if I don't eat._

Brock replied:

_Sounds good. I can be there in about 15. We can get takeout on the way._

Then:

_Be out front where I can see you._

Steve sent back:

_Sure thing._

He popped into the bathroom for his toothbrush and toothpaste, checked his duffel to be sure he had everything, and was outside a full six minutes before Brock's black pickup turned into the lot. Smiling, Steve raised a hand in greeting. Brock flashed him a grin as he pulled up next to him, rolling down the window.

“Hey, buddy,” Brock asked with a playful smirk, “you lookin' for a ride?”

“Sure am,” Steve replied with a small nod and a not quite suppressed smirk of his own. “You heading out into the big, wide wilderness where they've got rustic things like cabins and fishing?”

Laughing, Brock slapped the steering wheel with his open palm. Nodding and grinning, he replied, “A whole _world_ of adventure beyond your wildest city-boy dreams—come on, get in!”

Steve obeyed, tossing his bag behind the seat where Brock indicated and buckling himself in. “But seriously,” he said as Brock pulled back out onto the road, “this is really exciting in a way—I've never actually done anything like this before.”

Brock nodded as he glanced at his mirrors and changed lanes. “Yep, you're a real odd one for an alpha, Rogers—not the 'typical' sort.”

Steve chuckled. “What? Does the 'typical' alpha know how to fish?”

“Well, _yeah_ ,” Brock said, glancing sideways as he stopped at a red light, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. “It's that or outright hunting—or _both_ ; that's how you get your first food, after your dam's milk: none of this pureed bananas or mashed up peas beta babies eat off a spoon. Kill or be killed—gotta teach alpha babies early. Laws of nature and all that.”

“Right.” Steve shook his head, grinning. His dam always told him his first food was some cooked chicken he'd grabbed off her plate while sitting in her lap at the dinner table. And according to her he'd never had much interest in pureed anything—but he still doubted that really had anything to do with being an alpha. “I suppose I should wear all animal skins too? From things I killed myself?”

“With your bare hands,” Brock confirmed, nodding, “unless it was with a weapon you fashioned yourself—that's allowed, of course, so long as it's still something big and heavy and unwieldy—no bows, no katanas, and for the love of all the _gods_ , no fencing foils.” He chuckled, eyes on the road. “But, speaking of clothes: no shirts, of course. Gotta show off your chest hair.”

“Oh, of course.” Steve smiled as he watched the cars moving outside the truck's window. Not that he really _had_ much in the way of chest hair. Impressive muscles, certainly, but he wasn't hairy. “I probably shouldn't cut my hair, either. Or shave.” He'd tried having a beard for a while there in his early-to-mid twenties...but he'd still had to trim it every day if he didn't want to look like a hobo. Maybe he was just more used to shaving, but it had ended up being more trouble that it was worth. (Bucky'd always teased when Steve had the beard, saying he looked like a mountain man, but then after Steve finally shaved it off, insisted he hadn't meant that in a _negative_ way.)

“Well,” Brock said as he changed lanes again, “wouldn't want to be mistaken for a beta, now would you?”

Steve laughed softly. With his height and sheer bulk, no one had _ever_ mistaken him for a beta. Not since puberty finally hit, anyway. “Nothing wrong with betas.”

“Yeah, I heard,” Brock replied, flashing Steve a look with one eyebrow quirked. _Meaningfully_ , perhaps?

Steve's brow furrowed and he turned to look at Brock. “Heard what?”

“Oh, y'know,” Brock replied, keeping his eyes on the road, “that you tend to... _prefer_ betas.”

Steve snorted softly, rolling his eyes a bit. It wasn't true, of course; he didn't 'prefer' anyone, exactly. People were people, and a lot of people were _beautiful_. But, with a healthy, employed, good-looking alpha of his age still unbonded, people were bound to talk. (People never did much else.) “The first person I kissed,” Steve confided with an impossible to suppress smirk, “was an _alpha_.”

Brock let out a low whistle. He glanced sideways at Steve. “Carter?”

Steve nodded. God, he'd loved Peggy. Still did, actually, but she was bonded now. Beautiful little omega named Colleen. He'd attended their bonding celebration three years previous. They'd both been so beautiful and so happy. He'd...tired very hard not to be jealous. Their little Patrick was nearly two now, toddling around, babbling, calling Steve 'Unca'. Maybe one of these days Steve himself would settle down and have a family of his own like Peggy and Colleen kept hinting he should. Maybe.

The problem was always the same: finding the right person, the right partner. Someone he could trust, someone who really 'fit'.

Maybe he just wasn't ever going to get over Peggy.

They were on the highway when Brock spoke again, “So you and Wilson?”

Steve frowned in confusion for a moment before he realized what Brock was asking, then he laughed. “We flirted. A lot. But it never went anywhere.” Which is what _happened_ when male alphas and male betas flirted. It wasn't exactly that it wasn't allowed. Because it technically was. Despite general social taboos, there were no actual laws anymore against consenting adult male alphas and betas doing whatever they liked with each other in the privacy of their own homes. Or hotel rooms. Or darkened alleyways. Or wherever. But they couldn't bond and they couldn't marry, so that was basically that. With female betas it could be different. Because they could have children, and that's what alphas were supposed to _want_ , after all. What alphas were _for_. It was even legal now in most states for a male alpha to marry a female beta—even if it was still fairly taboo in a lot of circles. (Of course, it had been legal in Canada for some time, and in _some_ places, they were even considering making it legal for _female_ alphas to marry female betas—the argument being that it was the only procreative paring that was yet to be legal, so why the hell not?) But Alphas and omegas were meant _for each other_ , meant to be together. That's just what you did. The natural order of things. God's will. However you wanted to justify your opinions when attempting to impose them on other people's lives.

“You and Hill then?” Brock shot him a quick glance before turning his eyes back to the road.

Steve laughed quietly. “Pretty much the same.” Just with a lot more subtlety in the flirting. Possibly because that one could actually have gone somewhere. Legally, permanently.

Maybe Steve really did have a problem, an 'issue' or something like that. He was self-aware enough to admit the possibility.

Brock nodded, then his brow furrowed. “So are they _together_ now, or—?”

Steve shrugged. “I'm not even sure _they_ know.” Come to think of it, maybe the flirting thing was less a 'Steve' thing and more an issue with Sam and Maria. Maybe neither of them was quite ready to settle down either. Or maybe they just needed the right 'push' as Natasha kept saying. (And maybe Steve wasn't ready to settle down either. If he was, wouldn't he have put some effort into it? Be _putting_ some effort into it?)

(Like an alpha _should_. You find an omega. You settle down, protect and provide for that omega. You have a bunch of kids. It's in your nature; it's who you are, what you're for.)

(Steve just never much liked being told what to do. And that's _also_ supposed to be a natural part of an alpha's nature.)

Brock chuckled. “Fair enough.” After a beat, he added, “Speaking of confusing relationships, is Barton still living with Romanoff and her omega?”

“Last I heard,” Steve replied. He shrugged one shoulder. “They all seem happy.” They really _did_ too. Steve wasn't about to judge. And there wasn't a law anywhere in the country that forbade a bonded alpha-omega pair from rooming with a beta. Or doing whatever the hell else they chose to do together as consenting adults. That really wasn't the sort of thing the law had any business dictating anyway.

Brock hummed in acknowledgement. And probably vague agreement. “And how many kids do they have now?”

“Six,” Steve replied.

“ _Six_?” Brock asked, incredulous.

“Well, five,” Steve amended. “So far.” He counted them off by raising his fingers: “The older twins, Cooper and Callum; Nicole; the younger twins, Lila and Lewis—and another on the way.” Who knew when they'd be done; Laura was still young and healthy and seemed truly to enjoy pregnancy in a way most omegas only pretended to. (Unless she was just better at pretending.)

Brock quirked an eyebrow, glancing sideways. “Sure it's not a third set of twins?”

Steve chuckled. “Not that I heard, anyway.”

“You ever want kids, Rogers?” Brock asked, glancing over as he steered with just one hand.

“Maybe,” Steve replied casually. It could be nice. In a sort of vague, 'not right _now_ ' kind of way. (A 'someday' kind of way.) “Can't really have them without a little help, though.”

Brock laughed. “No one can.”

“You?” Steve cocked his head to one side in curiosity.

Brock only replied, “Hmm?” without looking away from the road.

“Kids,” Steve clarified.

“Oh.” Brock shook his head. “Nah. Too much trouble.” He sighed, flashing Steve a bit of a grin. “I'm not responsible enough to be a parent.”

Steve nodded. “Fair enough.” Not everyone wanted kids, after all. And as a male beta, Brock probably wouldn't even get crap about it. Everyone _else_ was supposed to reproduce. Eventually. One way or another. But male betas kind of got a free pass for whatever reason.

It wasn't fair, but then, what was?

o0o

They were just finishing up the last of their burgers and fries, stuffing crumpled wrappers smelling of onions and grease into the truck's garbage bag, when Steve's phone buzzed to alert him to a text. It was Bucky:

_Finally home. So damn tired. What are you up to this evening? Still going fishing?_

Steve wiped the grease off his fingers on his jeans before typing his reply:

_Yeah. On the road, actually. Just had some supper._

Then, because Bucky sometimes _did_ , he added:

_Don't forget to eat._

After a moment, Bucky replied:

_Don't worry; I'll find some leftovers or something._

Then:

_Or I'll just have cereal._

Steve smiled, a little fond and a little exasperated. Well, it was better than nothing.

“Who's that?” Brock asked, glancing sideways.

“Bucky,” Steve said. “He misses us both and is terribly sad he can't join us this weekend.”

Brock snorted. “He didn't say that.”

“No,” Steve agreed, “but he's thinking it.”

Snorting again, softly, Brock shook his head.

After a few minutes, Bucky texted again:

_You gonna have cell service way out there?_

Steve made a bit of a face, sending back:

_Not sure._

Then:

_I guess if you don't hear from me, assume I don't._

Bucky sent back:

_That works._

Then, after a moment:

_I might have to remind myself to eat._

o0o

They were driving past a rest stop that boasted picnic tables, toilets, and some sort of sightseeing when Brock spoke again, “So, Rogers.”

“Hmm?” Steve replied, turning his attention from the window back to Brock.

“You're really into everything?” Brock quirked an eyebrow as he glanced at Steve. “Alpha, beta, omega—male and female? All six genders?”

“Six recognized biological sexes,” Steve clarified. “I'm pretty sure gender's a bit more complicated than that.”

“Right,” Brock replied, eyes back on the road.

“But yes,” Steve said in answer to Brock's actual question. “None of that has ever mattered to me. I've known since I was a little kid that it 'should', probably _especially_ because I'm an alpha, but...it just doesn't.”

“Huh,” Brock said. “You're a weird one, Rogers.”

Steve chuckled. “Uh, thank you.”

Brock laughed, turning to flash him a grin. Turning back to the road, he muttered, “Proving my point.”

o0o

As the truck pulled off the highway onto a barely paved road, Steve's phone buzzed again. It was Bucky once more:

_Think I'll head to bed early, so good night._

Smiling, Steve texted back:

_Sleep well._

Then, because he couldn't help it:

_Don't forget to brush your teeth!_

After a moment, Bucky's reply popped up:

_You're not my dam, Rogers. :P_

Chuckling, Steve flicked off his phone's screen and slid it into the pocket of his jeans. People often said—maybe not so much these days as they had when Steve was young, but they still said it—that alphas _needed_ someone to care for, someone to fuss over: an omega, children. That it was some primal drive. An alpha's role, after all: protector, provider. Steve had never had a relationship with an omega, though he certainly _liked_ omegas well enough. He'd just never had the pleasure. And he hadn't yet managed to sire a child. (To be fair, he hadn't exactly been trying. At all.) But...Steve could just fuss over Bucky. Bucky was neither an omega nor a child, but pestering him made Steve smile, so...close enough.

o0o

The sun hung low and honey-amber in the sky as they pulled onto a tree-lined gravel driveway from a slightly wider yet also tree-lined gravel road.

“We're here,” Brock said as he pulled up, parking the truck just to the side of the cabin's front steps.

“I can see that,” Steve teased as he opened his door and hopped out. He grimaced, stretching a bit before grabbing his bag. It'd been a bit of a long drive. And his rather long limbs didn't much like being cooped up in a truck's cab for any length of time.

“Help me carry some of this stuff,” Brock said as he pulled a cooler from the back of the truck. “I've got beer that needs to go in the fridge.” He jerked his head towards the stack of cans—it was quite a lot for just two people, but then no one said they actually had to drink it all. (And of course, the original plan was for _five_ people.) “Unless you want to drink it warm,” he added with a grunt as he hefted the cooler and turned towards the cabin.

Slinging his bag over his shoulder, Steve grabbed as much beer as he could carry and followed Brock.

o0o

“So,” Brock said as he transferred items from the cooler into the fridge, “you can have any of the rooms you want—there are four, all about the same size, but I guess some have better views.” He paused, fixing Steve with a considering look. “You probably care about that, being an _artist_ and all.”

Steve folded his arms, leaning back against the small kitchen island. “Is art something else I shouldn't do as an alpha?”

Brock blew out a derisive breath through his lips as he went back to unpacking the cooler. “Of _course_.” He opened a carton of eggs and checked each one to be sure they hadn't broken on the trip. “I mean, you could do some sculpting or something, I guess, so long as it uses a decent-sized hammer or a badass welding torch or something.” He smirked. “But none of this fiddling around with pastels, charcoal...and _absolutely_ no pottery.”

Steve shrugged, tilting his head to one side in mock thoughtfulness. “Never really could get the hang of pottery—maybe that's why?”

“Yup,” Brock insisted immediately, sliding the carton of eggs onto a shelf and turning back to the cooler. “It's just not in your alpha nature. That, or it's a sign from above.” Looking up, he flashed Steve a grin. “Maybe both.”

Steve gripped the edge of counter on either side of him, smiling easily. “You sure know a lot about how alphas should act.”

“What?” Brock quirked an eyebrow at him as he stuck a block of cheese in the fridge. “'Cause I'm a beta?” He shook his head. “All beta guys want to be alphas—so we learn all we can.”

“Sun Tzu?” When Brock just looked uncomprehending, Steve clarified, “'Know your enemy'?”

Brock laughed. “Yeah, pretty much.”

Steve nodded. “So I suppose the only reason I have beta friends is that you're all trying to get intel from a real, live specimen?”

“Well, _yeah_.” Closing the fridge door, Brock slid the empty cooler out of the way with his foot. “So anyway, go ahead and pick out whichever room you want. I'll get the equipment ready for your first lesson in wilderness survival and living off the land.”

Steve couldn't quite suppress his grin. “All that food and beer...” He gestured to the fridge. “...still counts as 'living off the land'?”

Brock snorted, leaning against the bit of counter by the fridge and folding his arms across his muscled chest. “Hey, I'm not an alpha; you can't expect a delicate creature such as myself to subsist off burned trout, tasteless wild mushrooms, and thimbleberries for four days.”

Steve's brows twisted in confusion. “What the heck is a 'thimbleberry'?”

Brock stood up straight, expression earnest—with subtle touches of eagerness and worry. “Shit, I hope they're in season—they're actually really great. You gotta try them.” He grinned. “Red, tangy, sort of velvety texture—it's really unique; I've never found anything else like them.” He shook his head a little, looking down. “Closest is raspberries, but they're really nothing like raspberries.”

“Okay; I'm curious,” Steve admitted.

“Well,” Brock said, rubbing his palms on the fronts of his thighs, “a bunch of the bushes grow around here; we'll keep an eye out.”

Steve pulled his phone from his pocket. “Huh,” he observed, “no service.”

“That's good,” Brock insisted, offering Steve a crooked grin. “Adds to the whole wilderness experience.” After a beat, he added, “But don't worry, there's a regular old land line phone.” He pointed to where it hung in all its dull burgundy plastic glory on the wall. “For emergencies. Doesn't have any sort of long-distance plan, though, so if you use it to chat with Sam and Bucky or whoever, expect to pay up.”

Steve looked at the phone then back at Brock. It wasn't like he didn't have a fair bit of disposable income. But he also didn't exactly have anything overly pressing to say to anyone. “Fair enough.”

o0o

“Why are we fishing at night?” Steve asked as they walked along the rough path to the dock—it was a good thing Brock knew where to go, because everything was muted and blurred in the fading light. Steve, the poor little city-boy that he truly was, would probably have gotten lost out there by himself. And eaten by bears or something.

“Evening and morning are the best times to fish,” Brock replied, swinging the tackle box at his side.

“Right.” Steve nodded. “I think I knew that, actually.” He flashed Brock a sheepish smile. Something from Sunday school floated in his brain, about a group of people fishing all night and catching nothing—being surprised that they caught nothing. (And Jesus, telling them to cast their nets on the other side.) But night was the time they fished, that they were supposed to fish.

The dock creaked and shifted a bit under the weight of their footsteps—parts of it were floating, and the wood was old, perhaps a little rotten, but likely still study enough. Brock, who undoubtedly knew more about docks and their safety than Steve, didn't seem at all concerned, anyway, as he set down the tackle box between two of the weathered wooden chairs. Setting the six-pack of beer down behind the tackle box, Steve stood next to Brock and followed his instructions and example, casting the line.

“Now just sit and wait, mostly,” Brock told him, taking a seat. He nodded towards the six-pack. “And have a beer.”

Quirking an eyebrow at Brock, Steve settled himself in the other chair while keeping a good grip on his fishing pole—it was _probably_ unlikely he'd get a bite this early, but Brock had stressed the importance of keeping a good hold on the fishing pole at all times. (Unless he wanted to pay Brock for a new pole when this one got pulled to the bottom of the lake.) “Beer's an important part of fishing, hey?”

“'Important'?” Brock cocked an eyebrow as he deftly opened a can of beer one-handed and took a sip. He shook his head. “It's _essential_.”

o0o

“Ah, these are thimbleberries,” Brock said, indicating the clump of broad-leaved bushes. The dome-shaped berries were almost purple in the growing darkness. He set his tackle box and fishing pole down, stepped closer, and plucked one. “Try some,” he prompted, popping the berry in his mouth. Setting the bucket with Brock's fish in it and his own fishing pole down, Steve tried to pick a berry as well but only managed to squash it, pulling back sticky red fingers. Brock laughed—apparently it was hilarious. “You really are useless at anything related to wilderness survival, aren't you?”

Steve shrugged, licking the smashed berry off his fingers. “I guess I expected it to be more like picking a raspberry or a blackberry.”

“These are a lot softer,” Brock pointed out needlessly.

Steve gave Brock an 'are you serious?' look. “Yeah. I'd noticed.”

“Okay, here.” Brock stepped closer to the bushes, carefully freeing another berry. “You gotta be real gentle.”

“Oh, so for _this_ ,” Steve observed, “my rough and violent alpha nature is actually a liability.”

“I guess.” Brock shrugged one muscled shoulder as he picked another berry. He flashed Steve a grin. “Good thing you have me.”

“I suppose I tend to surround myself with betas for just that reason,” Steve replied in an undertone as he attempted once again to pick a thimbleberry. He only managed to squash half of it. Turning to Brock, he shrugged, looking from the berry to Brock and back. “I'm improving?”

“Or you just found one that was slightly less ripe,” Brock suggested, picking another with unnerving ease.

Steve ate the berry, savouring it. “They're really quite good,” he told Brock. Sharp and bright and insistent on his tongue. They tasted a bit like...summer. Like an early morning in summer before everything got hot and slow and syrupy.

“Uh-huh,” Brock agreed, picking a few more. “You'd have a hard time living off them, but I guess you'd die anyway, since you can't fish.”

Steve laughed, amused and affronted. “You said I'd get better with practice!”

Brock shrugged an unconcerned shoulder. “I was tryin' to be nice.”

Steve rolled his eyes, still laughing softly. “'Nice', huh?”

“Yeah,” Brock replied, deftly picking three more berries to join the pretty pile in his other palm. “Sometimes I do try, you know.”

“I think maybe you should try learning some manners,” Steve teased, trying once again to pick a berry and only succeeding in smashing it. “It's not smart to provoke the big, bad alpha out here where there's no one around.”

Brock smirked, making a soft sound in his throat. He popped a berry in his mouth. “No one to hear me scream like a twelve-year-old omega, is that it?”

Steve shrugged, licking smashed berry off his fingers. “Something like that.”

“Yeah, yeah, and I know where you sleep,” Brock shot back. He ate another berry. “But...” Turning to face Steve, he gave him a considering look. “Think you could take me, Rogers?”

Steve snorted softly. “With my _eyes closed_.” Brock was tough all right, but he was still a beta. And Steve was big even by alpha standards.

Brock glanced at the small pile of thimbleberries in his hand then at Steve, smirking. The next moment the handful of berries was smashed into Steve's face, and Brock's hand was grinding them further against his features. (Steve _really_ should have seen that coming.) It wasn't nearly hard enough to hurt, but it was sticky and gross, and Steve had tangy berry mush up his nose. Brock was laughing as Steve spluttered for a moment before reacting—with a growl, he jumped on Brock, pushing him down onto his back on the ground, holding him there with his weight.

It was juvenile, schoolyard. Playful roughhousing. The kind Steve had never bothered to grow out of once he'd finally grown _into_ it. But Steve looked down into Brock's face, and Brock wasn't laughing. Wasn't even smiling or rolling his eyes or any of the expected reactions. His eyes were wide—perhaps not _scared_ , exactly, but far too serious for someone looking up into a face smeared with the sticky red remains of berries. And his breath was catching in his chest and he wasn't fighting to get up. Wasn't moving at all save for his rough breathing and the frantic hammering of his heart.

Rolling off him, Steve swallowed, brows drawing together in concern. “Are you okay? I—did I hurt you?” He _had_ intentionally pushed Brock onto a relatively flat piece of ground, well away from both the bucket and the tackle box. He hadn't _seen_ any rocks or sharp sticks or anything like that.

Finally moving, Brock sat up, waving a slightly shaky hand at Steve. “I'm _fine_.” But he was visibly trying to get his breathing back to normal.

“I was just...” Steve grimaced, worry twisting in his gut. He dropped his gaze to his lap. “Playing.” It was the sort of thing he'd do with Bucky and Sam all the time. They'd play 'provoke the big, bad alpha' and he'd play his part in response. But he didn't know Brock quite as well as he knew either of them, did he? And Brock didn't know him as well either.

“I _know_ ,” Brock snapped, actively avoiding looking at Steve. He heaved himself up into a crouch. “You didn't hurt me and you didn't _scare_ me either—I was just surprised.” He sighed, standing up. Brushing the dirt and grass off his jeans, he grumbled, “You're worse than that omega I once dated—constantly needing reassurance that you're okay, that you didn't do anything wrong.”

“Sorry,” Steve said again, voice quiet, because he was and he wasn't sure what else to do.

Brock just snorted derisively. “Let's just get back to the cabin and get this fish in the fridge.” He glanced sideways at Steve. “And so you can get cleaned up—you look like a toddler who's just been learning how to feed himself.”

“Right,” Steve said, trying to smile and not bothering to point out who's fault it was that he looked like that.

o0o

Steve was spreading butter on toast when Brock shuffled into the cabin's small kitchen the following morning. “Good morning,” Steve said, trying for a relaxed smile. For all Brock's repeated insistence that he was _fine_ (dammit), he'd been stiff and jumpy ever since the thimbleberries incident. It was clearly Steve's fault. He'd forgotten that certain things that were fine with his _best_ friends weren't necessarily okay with _all_ of his friends. He'd broken something between himself and Brock. He just didn't have any idea how to _fix_ it.

Narrowing his eyes at the pan of scrambled eggs, Brock made an unimpressed grunt. “No bacon?”

“I—I completely fail at trying to cook bacon,” Steve admitted. “Every time I try.” Or so Bucky and Sam and Laura and Peggy and...literally _everyone_ said. “But, I did put some ham and cheese and chopped onion in the eggs.”

Grunting again and yawning, Brock sank unhappily into one of the chairs at the small table. “Guess I can't really complain after insisting we were gonna get an early start this morning.”

Steve chuckled softly as he scooped eggs onto a plate and added a slice of toast. “Yeah, I sort of expected you to be dragging my ass out of bed before the sun rose—wasn't that the plan?”

Brock made a face. “It was, but...” He sighed. “I think maybe I'm coming down with something. I feel terrible this morning.”

Steve turned, plate in hand, brow furrowed with worry. “Do you need to see a doctor?” He set the plate in front of Brock. There was certainly something off in Brock's scent as it mingled with the warm smell of buttered toast and the vibrant smell of percolating coffee, something nagging at the back of Steve's mind and putting him on edge. Brock's scent was never very strong, not like an omega's or another alpha's would be, so it was usually really easy to ignore. It just kind of faded into the background. But not this morning, especially not now that Brock had sort of accidentally called attention to it. “Maybe try the toast first if you're feeling woozy,” Steve suggested. He ran a hand back through his hair. There was bound to be a clinic of some sort in the nearest town. Or whatever passed for a town out in the middle of actual nowhere. “I could drive you—”

But Brock waved his concern away. “Nah, it's probably just a cold. You know how those can be. For betas, I mean. Since you wouldn't actually ever have had one.” Wrinkling his nose, he picked up the slice of toast. “We'll just take it easy today, if that's okay. Fishing's not too demanding as far as that goes.” He took a bite of toast, chewing and swallowing. “And besides,” he added, gaze meeting Steve's, “you're not gonna get to drive my truck. I've _seen_ how you drive.”

Ducking his head and smiling, Steve took his own plate and sat across from Brock. “Fair enough.” He poked at his eggs. “I just—”

Brock sighed. “Yeah, yeah, your big, strong alpha instincts are going into overdrive, all ready and eager to protect the poor sick, weak, frail beta. I get it. But it's unnecessary.”

“Okay.” Steve focused his attention on his eggs, which actually tasted pretty good considering he'd cooked them. Bucky was a better cook, but Sam was the real master chef. (Maria was like Steve: passably skilled, but generally avoiding it when possible. Same with Nat. Clint, on the other hand, was the cook that made everyone else look good by comparison.) Steve chewed a bite, enjoying the salty taste of ham and the pleasant crunch of onion.

The thing about Brock's scent was, it was stronger than usual. Quite a bit stronger, actually, as it filled the room. And...he didn't exactly smell sick. Though, to be fair, Steve had never seen (or smelled) Brock sick before, so what did he know? But 'sick' did have a smell, or perhaps a few general smells to it, and if anything...Brock smelled exceptionally _healthy_. Just...not really like himself. Not really. And, not really like...

“You got all quiet,” Brock observed, taking a sip of his coffee. He glanced at Steve over the rim of his mug. “You just worrying silently to yourself since I told you to shut up about it?”

“Um, no, I—” Steve frowned. “Sorry. I was just...” He scratched at his forehead with his thumbnail. Grimacing slightly, he glanced at Brock's face. “I was kinda getting distracted by your scent.”

Snorting softly, Brock shook his head then took another sip of coffee. “Sorry my being sick is disturbing your sensitive alpha nose.”

Steve grimaced again. “It's not really that—I mean—” He sighed. “You don't actually smell sick.”

“Well _great_ ,” Brock replied, leaning back in his chair. “Maybe it's just indigestion or something. If I don't smell sick, I probably don't have to worry.” He smiled, but didn't look all that relieved. “Not that _you'd_ have to worry anyway, being an alpha and essentially immune to every possible thing on the planet.” That just wasn't true. Sure, alphas got sick a _lot_ less than betas and omegas. But they still had to get vaccinations for things like mumps and meningitis, just like everyone. Unless they wanted to risk, at the very least, spreading the disease to everyone else. Which would be grossly irresponsible. Steve didn't protest, though, and Brock went on, “Okay, new plan.” He paused, poking at his eggs. “We head to bed early this evening and try the whole early morning fishing thing tomorrow instead.”

“Sounds good,” Steve agreed, taking a sip of his coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thimbleberries, for the record, are a real thing. They're delicious, but unless you happen to live somewhere they grow, you've probably never had them, because they don't really travel well, so you won't generally find them in stores.
> 
> If you've read [my other a/b/o fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5100992), don't expect the a/b/o stuff to work/look exactly the same in this fic (though of course there will be similarities). I reserve the right to adjust/change things to fit the current story or just because I feel like it.
> 
> Notes on characters and canon:  
> 'Colleen' is Colleen O'Brien from 'Agent Carter'. Her son, Patrick, takes his name from Colleen's brother who is mentioned in the show but not shown onscreen.  
> 'Laura' is Laura Barton (here, Laura Romanoff) from AoU.  
> Cooper and Lila Barton appear in AoU. Callum, Nicole, and Lewis Barton are from Earth-1610. (Here, all five children share the name Romanoff with their legally-recognized sire.)


	2. Chapter 2

Steve took the kettle off the burner before it whistled. The steam was coming pretty strong from the spout, so the water was obviously sufficiently boiled, and Steve was already so on edge he really couldn't handle a shrill noise right then. Besides, he needed to be listening for Brock, in case Brock needed him. For...anything. The sound of the shower was still going (and there hadn't been any loud thumps that sounded like falling). Brock had said a shower might make him feel better. Which made sense; showers often made people feel at least a little better.

Steve clenched his teeth as he triple-checked the cupboards. They only had three kinds of tea—and honestly, he was grateful they had any. (Even if it might all be a bit old.) But peppermint was supposed to aid digestion, and camomile was supposed to be soothing, so one of those had the potential to actually help. There was also green tea, which was supposed to have some sort of general health effects—but that was more of a long-term use kind of thing, wasn't it? Not the much more immediate effect Brock needed. Assuming the teas weren't so old they were stale and had lost most or all of their potency. Steve made a face at the three boxes assembled on the counter. They still smelled like tea, if that meant anything.

There wasn't a teapot anywhere in the cabin that Steve could find, but there were mugs, so Steve stopped stalling and put a bag of camomile in one and a bag of peppermint in another and then added the hot water. Whichever Brock wanted, Steve could drink the other. Or Brock could have both. If he wanted.

Steve was, of course, doing that annoying alpha thing. Trying to protect, provide. Take care. _Fix_ things.

Maybe he should've called Sam to ask for advice. Not only was Sam a beta with more personal experience with sickness than Steve (at least, more _recent_ personal experience), but he was also a paramedic. So, more qualified to treat injuries than illness, but still more qualified than _Steve_ to treat anything at all. (It really was too bad he couldn't call his dam for advice; she'd been a nurse, so this would be exactly her area of expertise. But she'd died shortly after Steve graduated high school. It wasn't _fair_ , but then, what was?) But the phone was for emergencies, as this really...wasn't. Was it? In all likelihood, Brock had a mild cold or maybe just some indigestion. He didn't even smell sick.

The bathroom door opened, and Brock emerged with a towel about his waist and a cloud of damp air billowing about him. He flinched, swearing under his breath. Turning a vaguely pained look on Steve, he asked, “Is it cold in here, or...?”

Steve's stomach plummeted. He hadn't even _thought_ of trying to heat the small cabin. There was some sort of...wood-burning...thing in the corner. “Sorry.” His eyes flicked over to where the stove—it was called a 'stove'—sat with a worn couch facing it. He rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck. “You said we wouldn't need it...” It was supposed to be for winter, or when the weather outside was cold.

“Right.” Brock made a soft, frustrated sound, sucking in a shaky breath. His shoulders hunched inwards and his hands trembled at his sides. “So I didn't bother showing you how to use it.”

“Look, um,” Steve said, walking quickly to his room and grabbing his own towel—he'd used it the previous night, but he'd hung it up so it was dry now. And it was still mostly clean. “Why don't you get dried off and dressed?” he suggested, wrapping the towel around Brock's shoulders. (Most bath towels were so small, honestly. And Steve's wasn't as soft and fluffy as it could be.) “I made you...tea.” Steve frowned, because something...something smelled...

“Steve?” Brock's brows twisted as he looked up at Steve. One hand clutched Steve's towel closed over his chest. “Hey, are you—?”

Steve breathed, slow and careful. That was Brock. Clean, fresh out of the shower. And, no, he absolutely did not smell sick. He smelled...great. But, more specifically...he smelled... Steve's features contorted in confusion. Was it some sort of soap or shampoo? But, no. Nothing artificial could replicate _that_ smell. Not well enough to fool an alpha's nose, anyway. There was only one thing that could ever smell like... He took a step back from Brock, staring at him.

“Steve?” Brock said again. He laughed nervously. “Hey, buddy, you're kinda freaking me out here.”

“Are you in heat?” Steve asked stupidly. He shook his head, then pinched the bridge of his nose. What kind of a question was _that_? That wasn't the sort of thing you just _asked_ someone! (Unless you were their doctor, maybe.) “Sorry, I—”

But when he looked at Brock again, instead of looking...however Brock, Steve's beta friend, _should_ look when asked such a stupid and inappropriate question...Brock looked... Well, he looked a bit confused but also horrified. “But—” Brock swallowed, still shaking as he pulled Steve's towel closer around his shoulders. “But I _can't_ be.”

“Of course you can't, because—” Steve blinked in confusion. Because Brock still smelled like Brock—a familiar scent that said 'friend'—but he didn't smell like a _beta_ anymore. And even just out of the shower, he smelled so _strongly_... Of Brock. Brock, the _omega_. _In heat_. It was heavenly. Enticing.

“ _Fuck_ this,” Brock said, shaking his head as if to dismiss an unwanted daydream. Turning, he walked into his bedroom. He didn't bother closing the door, just sat—dejected and lost—on the side of his bed.

Steve allowed himself one slow, careful breath in attempt to clear his head. Of course, his nose was telling his brain that there was an _omega_ _in heat_ nearby, so it didn't help as much as it may have on another day. But, thankfully, Steve's alpha instincts were still telling him to _take care_ of that omega. Which was exactly what he needed to do. Stepping up to the open door, Steve cleared his throat. “You need to get dried off. And dressed.” He gestured lamely to Brock's open suitcase where it sat on a wooden chair. “Before you get hypothermia.” Brock wasn't shivering, but he had been. Steve tried to smile, but his face felt all wrong.

Brock's eyes flicked to Steve's face, sudden and sharp. “You're not just fucking with me, Rogers? This isn't some sick idea you have of a—a _joke_?” When Steve just stared, uncomprehending, Brock snapped, “The _scent_ thing. Do I—?” He sighed, shoulders slumping as he rubbed the corner of Steve's towel over his forehead. “Do I really smell like an omega?”

Steve swallowed. He leaned against the doorframe. “Yeah—um, I mean I don't _understand_ what I'm smelling, but...” He looked down at the floor then back up at Brock. “You smell like an omega. And like you're in heat.”

Brock nodded, expression both resigned and a little lost. He rubbed Steve's towel through his black curls. “I think maybe...” He sighed, eyes unfocused and looking at nothing. “Maybe I do need to see a doctor.”

“Okay.” That was something Steve could to. To help. Maybe. “Is there a taxi service out this far?”

Turning narrowed, unimpressed eyes on Steve, Brock said, “You're going to drive me. In my truck.”

“All right,” Steve agreed. That was simpler, anyway.

“If I am in heat,” Brock said musingly, rubbing the towel through the hair on the back of his neck, “I guess it's not really an _emergency_ or anything...”

“But—how—?” The words were out before Steve could think better of them.

Brock's eyes snapped to Steve's face again—they narrowed, his gaze hardening. “'How?' How could I be in heat?”

Steve shuffled his feet, grimacing. “It—it's not...”

He'd meant to say 'any of my business', but Brock spoke before he could finish the sentence: “Not what? Not normal?” Snorting, Brock shook his head. “Nothing about _me_ is 'normal', Rogers.” His eyes narrowed further, burning with an angry light. “You wanna see? See the circus sideshow?” Flipping his towel aside, he spread his legs, displaying his naked body. In Steve's defence, part of the reason he was staring stupidly was due to being an alpha who was under the effects of an omega's 'in heat' scent. He was still staring, though, which was kinda rude. “Yeah, I know it's a confusing mess,” Brock snarled, “but let me point out the main attractions: here,” he said, pointing to it, “we have a cock that's clearly too big to be an omega's, but would in fact be perfectly normal on a beta. Nothing too exciting about it, I suppose, except the _context_ , because behind that, we've got the pointless and misshapen testicles that would also be normal on a beta if they were both properly shaped and _functional_.” They were actually quite _small_ , as though they hadn't finished developing. “And behind that, of course we have the omega's cunt, though a bit small.” He glared, though not really at Steve. “Of course there's also a perfectly boring asshole behind that still. But everyone's got an asshole.”

“You're...” Steve swallowed, blinking. “You're intersex.”

Brock snorted, narrowing his eyes and shaking his head. “If that's what you want to call it.”

“I...” Shaking his head, Steve rubbed a bit at his forehead. “I'm pretty sure that's what it _is_ called.”

“Well,” Brock said, flipping the towel back over his lap, “when I was a kid they called it 'special' and 'different' when they were trying to be polite. But usually it was my 'disability' or my 'deformity'.” He made a face, looking away. “The doctors said they could remove the testicles when—” He drew a breath, letting it out heavily. “When it was clear they weren't ever going to be functional.” He shook his head again. “They told me none of it would ever truly be functional, but if they removed the dupe testicles, then at least I'd look like an omega. Sort of.”

“But you wanted to be a beta,” Steve said, still stupid and stunned. “That's what you'd rather...”

Brock rolled his eyes. “I know I'm not _actually_ a beta,” he snapped. “But I'm not a proper omega either, and I'm never going to be—I've known that since I was a kid.”

“I—I'm sorry,” Steve said, because maybe it was what he was supposed to say. Or maybe not. He narrowed his eyes as he looked at Brock, still sitting there in a towel—well, two towels. “You still need to get dried off. And dressed.” Brock just glowered at him, so Steve said, “I should—” He pointed towards the kitchen with his thumb. “The tea will be done steeping.” He turned to go.

“You think—” Brock heaved an angry breath, in and out. “You think you can just come around and just _alpha_ at me long enough and—and what? Suddenly I'll be all fixed and everything will be fine?” He rolled his eyes. “That's not going to work!”

“That's not—” Turning back to look at Brock again, Steve shook his head. The longer he stood breathing Brock's scent, the more muddled his thoughts became. “I never tried—”

Brock made a disgusted sound. “No, you've never 'tried' anything in your whole goddamned life! You're just an alpha—perfect, flawless. Born perfect, grew up perfect. That's all you've ever had to be.” Brock shook his head, shoving still damp hair out of his face. “But I had to _try_ to be _anything_. Lucky me, right? I got the fun grab-bag when it comes to genitals. A whole bunch of parts that don't quite fit. So I figured, since I have to pick something, why not be a beta?” He shook his head, lips twisting into a bitter smile. “At least there, there's no expectations; you pretty much get left alone.”

“I think I get that,” Steve said softly, nodding. If he'd been given a choice, he might have picked beta too. There were times when he was a teen, when he was still waiting for puberty to fully hit—times when Bucky was bigger and stronger and so much _healthier_ than he was—that he'd wondered what the _point_ of being an alpha was, anyway. He closed the door softly after himself and walked back to the kitchen to retrieve the teabags from the mugs and add a little extra water to each because they really looked and smelled like they'd steeped a bit too long. At least in the kitchen, the smell of omega in heat was fainter, so he could think a bit clearer. Placing both mugs of tea in the middle of the table, he sat down in one of the chairs.

Sometimes, even now that he was big and strong and looked like the perfect hero from a storybook, he still sort of wondered about the 'point' of being an alpha. The near immunity was nice, sure, but other than that... He had a knotting penis. Yay? It was a little difficult to get excited about a knotting penis and how it was supposedly the 'best' kind of penis, when he couldn't even jerk off properly. See, Bucky could do it in the shower in under five minutes. (He'd bragged about it as a teen. He could probably still do it just the same, even though he didn't brag about it anymore.) Steve could do it in the shower too. If he didn't mind standing around in the shower for a _full hour_. It...kind of worked better in a tub. Which was, technically, the reason his current apartment _had_ a tub. Somewhat embarrassing, even trying to justify that extra expense to himself, but... It hadn't been much fun when he was in art school and living in a crummy little apartment with a tiny shower stall in a musty little bathroom where the exhaust fan barely worked. Not that he'd had _time_ then. Waste an hour jerking off, or get the assignment done by the deadline so all the money he was spending on tuition wouldn't go to waste? Such a dilemma. Or, it might have been a dilemma if he'd had some choice of location besides a narrow, hard bed—where he'd need to wash the sheets afterwards for two dollars and fifty cents a load—and the shower that was literally too small to even sit down in. And the water got cold after about fifteen minutes.

No wonder, really, that alphas had the reputation of being sex-crazed.

“Hey,” Brock grunted, shuffling into the kitchen. He was wearing a pair of reasonably warm-looking sweatpants and a t-shirt that probably wasn't nearly warm enough. At least he was wearing socks. “I, uh.” He gestured vaguely back towards his room. “I hung up your towel.”

“Thanks,” Steve said, smiling a bit. Brock smelled _so_ good. And part of that was the subtle touch of Steve's own scent on him (from the towel), mingling with his own. Steve bit the inside of his cheek. That really wasn't the reason Steve had offered his towel. “Are you warm enough?”

Brock wrinkled his nose as he sat down across from Steve. He waved a dismissive hand. “Yeah, just—needed to get dried off. You know how it is: sometimes you just get out of the shower and feel cold, right?” He narrowed his eyes slightly. “ _Do_ you know how that is?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, dropping his gaze to the table. He knew how it felt for an _alpha_ , anyway. He shifted in his chair, gesturing to the mugs of tea. “The tea might still help—uh, one is camomile and the other's peppermint.”

Brock looked at the mugs for a moment. “Which is which?”

Right. Steve could have just told him. He pointed to the navy blue mug. “This one's peppermint, which is supposed to help with digestion.” Among other things. Sam said it was great for sore throats. “And this one's camomile,” he added, pointing to the brown mug, “which I think is supposed to be soothing.”

Grunting softly, Brock reached for the camomile tea and pulled it towards himself. “Supposed to make you sleepy, too. Which—” His eyes flicked to Steve's face. “—you probably don't need if you're going to be driving. Especially not when it's my truck.”

“You can have them both, if you want,” Steve told him.

Brock just grunted, taking a sip from his mug. After a moment, he set the mug back down and nodded to the other one. “You might as well drink it—feels weird just sitting here with you watching me drink tea.”

Anything Steve could do to help Brock be more comfortable... Drinking a mug of tea was simple. Easy. He pulled the mug of peppermint tea towards himself and took a sip. It was quite nice, actually. Maybe he could add 'peppermint tea' to his list of things he didn't entirely fail at preparing in the kitchen.

“When I was young—” Steve said after a few quiet seconds ticked by. “—when I was a child, and even through most of my teen years—you wouldn't have believed I was an alpha if I'd told you.” He shook his head. “Hell, I hardly believed it myself, and I'd had the doctors show me the lab results from my blood tests.” He cleared his throat and took another sip of tea. “I won't pretend my experience compares to yours—that's not what I'm trying to say.” He pressed his lips together, staring at his hands where they gripped the mug. “But I do know, to some degree, what it's like to be...unhappy with my body.” He wrapped his fingers more snugly around his mug, gaze on the glossy surface of the tea. “I was tiny, weak, sickly. And I suppose part of the problem was that I knew—and everyone else knew—that I wasn't _supposed_ to be.” He shook his head. “Bucky used to bug me about it something fierce. Used to call me his 'little alpha friend', or—just point out how small I was all the time. I think it was honestly his favourite thing when I'd get in fights and he'd have to rescue me before I got beaten half to death—gave him a huge ego boost, you know?” One side of his lips curled up at the memory.

“I suppose it would,” Brock replied taking another sip of his tea. “But...” He set the mug down on the table. “You got better.”

“I did,” Steve agreed, taking a sip of his own tea. “Puberty came late for me, but when it did: it was kind of an overnight transformation. I mean, it really took a few months, but it pretty near may as well have happened overnight: I grew out of all my clothes, drove my poor dam crazy trying to keep up so I'd actually have anything to wear to school. And in the end, I was bigger than Bucky—taller.” He twitched his broad shoulders in a shrug. “Just bigger all over.” He pressed his lips together in a sort of pensive smile. “And I haven't gotten sick since.”

“But you do know what it's like to be sick,” Brock said, expression thoughtful.

“I do.” Steve took another sip of tea. “I even had pneumonia once.” He smiled wryly at the memory, though it wasn't exactly a pleasant one. “Apparently the whole alpha immunity thing sometimes doesn't really kick in until puberty.”

Brock was quiet for a few sips of tea, then he said, “Well, I never really had puberty. Not properly, anyway. I got taller, grew body hair...my voice got deeper. So I guess I had beta puberty, or most of it. But I never even went into pre-heat.” He took another sip of his tea. “Not that I really expected to. They'd told me I probably wouldn't.” He made a face, gesturing with one hand. “The stuff inside: it's all there, all the omega parts. They just don't work.” He shrugged his muscled shoulders. “Never have. Never will.”

Steve nodded and took a swallow of his tea. “Will we have to make an appointment for you to see a doctor, or do they have a sort of walk in kind of thing around here?”

Sighing, Brock rubbed at his forehead. “They have a...'diagnostic and treatment centre' about a forty minutes' drive from here. Which is sort of partway between an actual ER and a walk-in clinic.” He pursed his lips, swirling his tea around in the bottom of his mug. “So no: no appointment necessary. But we do probably want to head out before it gets too late, because it's not open at night, and if we miss the deadline there then it's an hour and a half drive to a real emergency room—and like I said, this _isn't_ an emergency.”

Steve nodded. At least, it wasn't an emergency _yet_. But they still needed to get Brock in to see a medical professional within the next few hours. Heats, especially first heats, could be difficult even for the average healthy omega. It was one reason suppressants were so strongly recommended for anyone under the age of about eighteen to twenty. _Especially_ if they had asthma or a heart condition or anything like that. But despite his unusual configuration, Brock was generally healthy. Quite healthy, in fact. He should—probably—be okay. Assuming he really was in heat and didn't just smell like it. Which was one of the reasons he needed to see a doctor. Steve ran his fingers back through his hair and drank the rest of his tea. “Well, I'm ready whenever you are.”

o0o

Brock walked back out of the exam room at the small clinic and Steve stood up, dropping the magazine he hadn't actually been reading back on top of the stack. Brock chewed on his lip, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he hunched in on himself like he was cold. Or in pain. He shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his jacket—which was open, but at least looked warm. Swallowing, he shook his head once then met Steve's eyes. “I'm done here—can we go?”

“Of course,” Steve agreed, turning to usher him out through the door. Only one other person sat in the waiting room—a beta woman who looked to be about five or six months pregnant—but the omega receptionist kept shooting Brock worried, sympathetic looks, and clearly Brock had no desire to discuss his condition in front of either of them.

Brock walked in silence to the truck where Steve opened the passenger door for him—it just seemed kind, since Brock still had his hands buried as deep as they could go in his jacket pockets. And Brock didn't even protest. After closing the passenger door, Steve walked around and climbed into the driver's side. He closed the door behind him, and Brock said, “So, uh, the doctor—or, I guess she was actually a nurse practitioner...” He made a face. “Anyway, she says I'm 'effectively' in heat, which apparently means that it might not be the 'real' thing, but my body thinks it is, so we might as well treat it as such.” His features twisted. “Whatever this actually is...” He shifted a bit in his seat. “...it looks, sounds, acts, walks, and apparently _smells_ exactly like a heat.”

“Okay.” Steve nodded, sliding the key into the ignition. “Do you need anything from a pharmacy or...?”

Brock shook his head, tugging a white plastic bag partway out of his jacket pocket. “She didn't want me to have to go out in public, so she gave me some basic stuff right there. But...no suppressants, because not only is this 'heat' too advanced at this point for them anyway, but she's worried they might do my system 'more harm than good' even if I had taken them earlier.” Shifting again in his seat, Brock hunched his shoulders higher. He shook his head. “Whatever that means: 'more harm than good'.”

It probably meant something bad. If the qualified medical professional thought something was a bad idea, it was generally smart to avoid that thing. “All right.” Steve started the engine. “We need to get you somewhere safe.”

Brock blinked at him in confusion. “'Safe'?”

“Yes. Safe.” Grimacing, Steve shoved his hand back through his hair. If they were supposed to treat this as if it were a real heat, this was important. “Somewhere you can feel comfortable and secure. With someone you trust.”

Shifting in his seat so he was turned more towards Steve, Brock glared at him, sort of dull and annoyed. “You think I don't trust _you_?”

Steve's lips pulled back in a grimace. He couldn't possibly be the best choice Brock had. Surely Brock had...someone, somewhere he could go. Some option better than his stupid alpha friend who made him uncomfortable and whom he didn't particularly _like_. Steve tried, lamely, “I'm an alpha...”

“Yeah, yeah,” Brock snapped. “Gotta protect the fragile, little omega from the big, scary alpha.” He rolled his eyes. “Fuck you. You think I'm scared of you?” He curled his lip. Shifting a bit, he narrowed his eyes at Steve. “Or is it you? You're actually worried you won't be able to resist the ugly, deformed omega just because he's in heat.” His eyes narrowed further. “How desperate _are_ you?”

Steve sighed and his shoulders hunched as his hands gripped the steering wheel. “You need someone to take care of you while you're in heat.” He shook his head. “I just want you to feel safe.”

Brock laughed, short and bitter. “I don't even know what that feels like, Steve.” He shifted in his seat. “But what I do know is this: you already know my dirty secret. And I don't want _anyone_ else to know unless it's _literally_ a matter of life and death.” He turned pleading eyes on Steve. “So please: take me back to the cabin.” He shifted in his seat again, shivering. “I'm being a selfish, needy omega in heat right now, but—aren't I _supposed_ to want an alpha to take care of me?”

Steve swallowed. That was—wow. He'd never taken care of someone in heat before. It was a huge honour to have someone ask. As well as a huge shock that Brock trusted him that much. Even if there were rather awkwardly complex extenuating circumstances. But the cabin was a reasonable location, all things considered. No neighbours to come nosing around after the scent, plenty of food and water, even a wood stove if Steve could figure out how to get it lit—and if they ended up needing it. He cleared his throat. “Of course I'll take care of you if that's what you want.”

“It is,” Brock insisted, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets and hunching his shoulders higher around his neck. “Now fucking _drive_.”

o0o

Walking into the cabin, Brock pulled the plastic bag out of his pocked and dropped it on the table. Then he sank down into one of the chairs, resting his elbows on the table and pressing his hands over his face. “I don't know what the fuck to do,” he admitted. “I've never even known anyone who was in heat—and I sort of tuned everything out back in school when they were teaching us all about heats in sex ed.” Some schools separated students for sex ed (it mostly depended on numbers), so Brock might have even been in a beta class that only got the basic, cursory lesson anyway.

“Well,” Steve said, padding over to the kitchen after he'd gotten his shoes off. “I've never helped anyone through a heat before, but I did pay attention in school.” His school had put everyone together for sex ed, so he and Bucky had sat through everything together. Which was honestly smart, because betas could and often did end up helping a friend through a heat now and then. He flashed Brock a sort of hopeful, encouraging smile. “The first and most important thing is to keep you hydrated.”

Brock grunted. He probably already knew that one. “Can I have a beer?”

Steve paused by the fridge. “Well...uh, alcohol isn't exactly the most hydrating thing.”

Rolling his eyes, Brock snorted. “Can I have some water _and_ a beer, then?”

Okay, so they'd never actually mentioned alcohol specifically in relation to heats in school, but it didn't sound like the best idea. Give a person who's judgement is already impaired by a mating drive something that will impair their judgement even further? Yeah, that just didn't sound overly smart. But then, if Steve didn't have any actual medical facts to back that opinion up, maybe he'd just be coddling Brock, treating him like a child. Brock was actually a few years older than Steve. Steve pressed his lips together. “Did the nurse practitioner say anything about alcohol consumption?”

Brock rolled his eyes again. “She gave me this list...thing,” he said, fumbling with the plastic bag for a bit before pulling out a folded sheet of paper. He grimaced as he looked it over. “Okay, so it says to avoid 'over-consumption' of alcohol if you're taking any suppressants... Which is completely irrelevant to me... And to ask your doctor before combining alcohol with any 'non-barrier birth control options'.” He made a sound that was partway between a snort and a giggle. “Like I'd need any 'birth control options' of any kind.”

This was the sort of situation where Google could really be helpful. But Steve's phone was still showing 'no service'. His brow furrowed slightly. “But nothing about just drinking it in general?”

“Nope...” Brock replied as his eyes scanned the page again. “At least not that I see.” Tossing the paper onto the other side of the table, he jerked his chin towards it. “Check for yourself if you don't believe me.”

“I believe you,” Steve assured him, opening the fridge and pulling out a can of beer. Opening it, he set it down in front of Brock. “I'll get you some water too.” He turned to grab a glass and fill it at the sink.

“Have a beer too,” Brock suggested as Steve put the glass of water in front of him on the table.

“I need to keep a clear head,” Steve pointed out.

Brock snorted, leaning back in his chair and shooting Steve a rough grin. “I really smell _that_ good to you? So good you're scared you're gonna go scent-crazed and jump me?”

Sighing, Steve leaned against the counter. “I'm not talking about possibly 'jumping' you. But yes, you do smell good.” He ducked his head as his cheeks heated. “Distractingly so.” He pressed his lips together, frowning a bit. “What I mean is that I need to take care of you: make sure you're hydrated, that you eat. And I don't feel like I can do that effectively if I'm any _more_ compromised.”

Brock snorted, taking a long swallow of his beer. “But what would one beer even do to you, anyway? Don't alphas metabolize _everything_ faster? Shouldn't you need a whole six-pack to even get buzzed?”

“Maybe,” Steve conceded. He'd never in his life gotten falling-down drunk, so he wasn't actually sure how much it would take. Usually five or so drinks could get him buzzed—especially if he drank them fast enough. “But I'd still wait at least an hour after having a single drink to drive.” That was the general rule, though of course it also depended on body mass and a few other factors. He shrugged, hands loosely gripping the counter edge at his sides. “I'm just not comfortable taking any extra risks right now.”

“Fine, whatever,” Brock grumbled, sitting forward in his chair and resting one forearm along the edge of table. “Just thought maybe it'd help you calm the fuck down—you've been on edge for...” He made a face. “Well, since _before_ you found out I was in heat.” He wrinkled his nose, turning his beer can with one hand where it sat on the table. “And it's kinda putting _me_ on edge too.”

Shit. That _wasn't_ going to help the situation. Couldn't have been helping it up to this point either. “I'm sorry,” Steve said, quietly sliding into the chair across from Brock. “It—it isn't your fault.” He hung his head for a moment then offered Brock a small apologetic smile. “I just worry. I know it's not helpful, but it's what I do. Bucky and Clint are always teasing me about it, and Sam and Nat are always getting on my case about how it's not healthy. I—I want to fix things, to help people, to—to make the world a better place.” Folding his arms on the tabletop, he shrugged. “Right now, I just want to help _you_. I want to help you through this, for this to be as easy and stress-free as possible. So...” He shifted, grimacing a little. “I'll try to do better, to keep myself calm.” Because, so long as he was in heat, this was about Brock. Not about Steve's own insecurities.

Brock took another sip of his beer. “Just don't—” He shook his head, making a face. “Don't try so hard you make it worse, okay?”

Steve chuckled, dropping his gaze to the tabletop. “Yeah. Good point.”

Brock downed the last of his beer and crushed the can in his hand, looking at it unhappily. “Don't suppose I could have another.”

Steve gestured towards Brock's glass. “Drink your water.”

Brock levelled an unimpressed look at Steve. “Sir, yes, _sir_.”

But he drank the water.


	3. Chapter 3

“You don't have to stack the wood so it looks exactly like a teepee,” Brock said from where he was sprawled on the couch. He shoved a handful of salted peanuts into his mouth, chewed, and washed the bite down with a mouthful of water. He was eating. And drinking. That was good. He made a face at Steve. “I'm getting all this semi-worried approval in your scent—which, I guess, is a few damn good degrees better than 'oh, gods, oh, gods, he's gonna _die_!'” He rolled his eyes. But he smiled a little, and Steve couldn't help smiling a bit in response. Brock waved a hand. “But anyway, the important thing—” He made a face, shifting on the couch. “—is to make sure there's a lot of...space under the wood. Like, in the middle. Because the fire burns _upward_ , right?” Steve nodded. He kind of did know that much. “And outward,” Brock continued, “so you put all the paper and kindling in the middle and bottom and all the rest of the wood around and on top of that—but there needs to be space for air to move too, or you'll just smother the whole thing before it has a chance.”

“Right.” Steve went back to carefully arranging the pieces of firewood. “So you can read an alpha's scent?”

Brock shrugged. “A bit. Better than most betas could, I guess. Since betas can't smell much of anything. But probably not as well as your average omega.” He made a face, adding in a lower tone, “Or even the below average ones.” He ate another peanut, took a sip of water. “Maybe a big part of it is that I really haven't had a lot of practice.”

Steve nodded. “That makes sense.”

“I guess most omega kids start from right out of the womb,” Brock said, “with their alpha parent's scent.” He shrugged. “I never had an alpha parent: my dam was an omega, but the sire was a beta.” He turned his glass in his hands, staring blankly at it. “One doctor was convinced that's why I came out the way I did—he even had studies showing the correlation between children with non-standard genital configuration and the combination of a beta parent with either an alpha or an omega.” He made a face. “The numbers weren't exactly overwhelming, and my dam always said it was bullshit.”

“One of the things Bruce always says,” Steve commented as he adjusted a stick of firewood—perhaps needlessly, as the whole configuration looked rather like a teepee and it would probably be okay to try lighting it, “is that correlation does not equal causation. And the way I understand it, intersex people are born due to random chance.” 'Time and chance happen to everyone' as it said in...was that Ecclesiastes? It was in the Bible, at any rate. Brushing his hands off on his jeans, he turned towards Brock. Nodding towards the wood stove, he asked, “How's that look?”

“Looks okay from over here,” Brock said. He offered Steve a wry smile. “I'm not getting off my ass to examine it more closely, so how about you just try lighting it? There should be a lighter right there on the little shelf.”

“Yup,” Steve confirmed, picking it up from the shelf. It wasn't a cigarette lighter, but a lighter with a much longer, uh...thing? On the end. Where the flame happened. Whatever that was called. It also had a sort of trigger mechanism inside a kind of plastic trigger guard, which undoubtedly made it a lot easier to use than those fiddly little wheel and whatever things on most cigarette lighters. Anyway, it was the sort of lighter Steve would normally have called a 'fireplace lighter'. At least in his head. (That might actually be what it was called for real. It's not like Steve had ever had a fireplace. And everyone he knew who had one had the gas kind.) He looked it over consideringly. “And I think I can probably even figure out how to use it.”

Brock grunted, shifting his position again. “It's pretty obvious, I guess, except that you need to push the one little button before you pull the trigger, or it won't work.”

“Gotta take the safety off,” Steve mused, finding the button with his thumb. “Right.” Pressing that button, he pulled the trigger, and a bright tongue of flame leapt into being at the tip of the lighter.

“You actually know about guns?” Brock asked, sounding mildly impressed.

“Well, air rifles,” Steve admitted as he lit the crumpled paper in the stove then released the trigger and flicked the safety back on. “Bucky and I took a class when we were teens.” He pursed his lips to one side as he watched the fire lick over the paper, eagerly making the jump to the 'kindling' pieces. “Bucky was better at it than I was. Just—a better shot.”

Brock grunted out a rough laugh. He shook his head. “He ever tell you he'd have made the better alpha?”

“Too many times to count,” Steve replied, eyes on the fire. Turning to Brock he said, “It looks like it's burning okay—do I close the door now?”

Brock narrowed his eyes a bit, shifting again on the couch. “Yeah,” he said finally, “but make sure you leave those vents open so it gets air.”

“All right.” Setting the lighter aside, Steve swung the stove door shut and latched it securely. The vents might let a spark or two escape, but the stone hearth and walls around the wood stove would keep those sparks from lighting anything. It was safe. Brock was safe.

“You're feeling pretty pleased with yourself over there,” Brock teased. “You have made fire, like a clever alpha cave man: pretty cool, hey?”

Steve offered him a lopsided smile. “Pretty sure the wood stove wasn't invented until a bit more modern times than that.” Not to mention super easy to use fireplace lighters.

“Yeah, yeah.” Brock waved a careless hand. “And people never actually lived in caves. Who cares? History is more fun if you write it yourself.”

“It might be a bit more educational the other way,” Steve said, standing up and brushing bits of ash and wood off his jeans. “They say those who don't learn from the past are doomed to repeat it.”

“Yeah,” Brock said, looking away, his features morphing into something decidedly unhappy. “I suppose you wouldn't have to go too far back to find a time when I would have been left out on the rocks as a baby. But anyway—” He flashed Steve a blithe, somewhat brittle smile. “Come sit next to me; I like how you smell right now: all self-satisfied and proud like you accomplished something worthwhile.”

“Didn't I?” Steve asked, looking at the wood stove then back at Brock. “You were cold. I made it warmer.”

“You did!” Brock insisted, slapping his thigh. “Now come sit down already.”

“Whatever you say, boss.” Taking the two steps required, Steve sat down on the couch.

Brock took a deep breath, closing his eyes. “Wow, yeah: that's the stuff.”

“You like how I smell?” Steve couldn't help smiling—and probably projecting quite a bit of pleased pride—at that.

“Fuck, yeah,” Brock breathed. He made a soft, vaguely frustrated sound in his throat. “You're so much _stronger_ now, sharper—which I guess is normal, with my being in heat and all.” He peeked at Steve through barely open eyes. “You've always smelled good—just, your general scent. But this...” He took another deep breath, eyes closing in pleasure. “That's just...amazing.”

Steve had to stop himself from actually preening under Brock's approval. God, but Brock's heat scent was making him stupid. _Notice me_ , his alpha instincts begged. _Pay attention to me_. _Like me_. Steve shook his head in an attempt to clear it, if even just a little. He chewed on his lip a bit. He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Well, whatever helps...I mean, if it helps...”

Brock peeked at him again then dropped his gaze to where Steve's hand rested on his thigh. “Can I—?” Brock asked, gesturing to it.

“Yeah, of course,” Steve said. He hadn't wanted to push Brock, of course, but physical touch was supposed to help—a lot—with soothing an omega in heat. Especially if that touch was from a trusted alpha.

Brock picked up Steve's hand in both of his own, turning it over slowly. He brought it to his nose and breathed deeply, eyelids fluttering in a way that stabbed hot and sudden in Steve's gut. “Fuck,” Brock mumbled. He shook his head. “I'm not sure if that's helping or making it worse.”

Steve swallowed. “My scent?”

“Not just your scent.” Brock chewed on his lip. “The smell of wood and fire on your hand. It's—” He shook his head. “Some stupid 'in heat' thing, I guess.”

“Is it...good?” Steve asked. That probably wasn't really want he meant to say. Or at least, it wasn't phrased very well.

But Brock just said, “Yeah,” his breath warm and damp against Steve's skin, then he drew another deep breath. “Well, that's embarrassing,” Brock said after a moment.

“Embarrassing?”

Brock offered him a kind of soft, wry, apologetic smile. “Pretty sure I'm gonna slick right through my pants and get it all over the couch if I don't get up and—” He made a face, looking away.

“You could sit on your bed,” Steve suggested while silently willing his stupid cock to just pretend he hadn't heard any of that. Pretend Brock wasn't in heat and didn't smell like the best thing he'd ever smelled. Because, speaking of embarrassing, well...an obvious bulge in his jeans wouldn't just be _physically_ uncomfortable. “The mattress is waterproof, right?” The one in Steve's room was anyway. He was pretty sure. Most mattress were, primarily because omegas couldn't be expected to spend their entire heats in bathtubs or sitting on the floors of shower stalls.

“Should be,” Brock said, pushing himself reluctantly to his feet. Stretching, he smiled at Steve over his shoulder. “You gonna sit with me on my bed?”

“I...could,” Steve said, standing up as well.

Brock offered him a crooked smile as he grabbed the plastic bag from the nurse off the table. “Careful, Rogers,” he said, as he turned to walk towards his room. “A guy could get the wrong idea here.”

And, okay. Brock was definitely flirting with him. Which was...expected. He was in heat, after all. And Steve was an alpha. An alpha he knew and at least sort of trusted. Steve silently told his cock to calm the fuck _down_. Flirting was just flirting. He grabbed a sport top water bottle from the fridge and followed Brock into the bedroom.

“Thought maybe you'd changed your mind,” Brock said, looking up as Steve walked through the door.

“Just...water,” Steve explained showing him the water bottle before setting in on the small wooden nightstand.

Brock grunted. “Taking that whole keeping me hydrated thing pretty seriously.”

“That's because it is serious,” Steve said, sitting down on the bed. That was the way omegas died 'from heat', after all. Well, the most common way. The way that didn't require a previously existing condition like asthma or a weak heart. He tapped the mattress through the sheet. “And it is waterproof?”

“I pulled up one edge to check, and it's got the waterproof cover,” Brock replied. “I didn't check the whole thing for holes or anything, but...”

“It should be fine,” Steve replied. “If not, we can replace it.” He shrugged unconcernedly.

Brock grunted, leaning back against the wall. “I'll make you replace it: you're the big, strong alpha.”

One side of Steve's lips turned up in a smile. “Fair enough.”

Brock sucked in a breath and let it out, a little shaky. “Wow, that actually—” He scrubbed a hand back through slightly damp black curls. “That kind of takes a load off. Knowing you'll take care of it.”

“Of course I'll take care of it,” Steve said, carefully putting a hand on Brock's arm and watching for any signs of Brock tensing up or pulling away. But instead, Brock relaxed visibly, groaning softly and leaning into Steve's touch. “There's no reason you should have to deal with anything like that,” Steve assured him. “None of this is your fault.”

“It's not your fault either,” Brock pointed out with a soft, rough chuckle.

“No, but—” Steve twisted his lips in thought. “If it helps you feel better, I'd be more than happy to do whatever I can.”

Brock laughed again, rough and quietly surprised. “You're just saying that 'cause you like how I smell.”

“Maybe,” Steve allowed, stroking the warm skin on Brock's arm just below his t-shirt sleeve with his thumb. “But I'll still do it after, even when you don't smell like this anymore.”

“Wow.” Brock shook his head. He shot Steve a sort of dubious look out of the corner of his eye. “How the hell are you still single, exactly?”

Steve shrugged. “Nat says I have 'commitment issues'.”

Brock snorted. “Whatever the hell that means.”

Steve shrugged again. “I never actually looked it up. Not sure she even did. But Bucky always says I have too high of standards.”

Brock snorted, shifting to lean into Steve's side. “The guy who'd fuck everything _including_ the kitchen sink...has too high of standards.”

“To be fair,” Steve pointed out as he gently wrapped his arm around Brock to pull him more snugly against his side, “a person can have vastly different standards for who they'd fuck and who they'd actually want to settle down with.”

“True that,” Brock agreed. He yawned. “Gods, I'm tired.” He shot Steve a questioning look. “If I took a bit of a nap, would you—” He swallowed, eyes cutting away. “Would you stay?”

“Yeah,” Steve replied. “If you wanted me to.”

Brock rolled his eyes. “I figured that was _implied_ , but since you need it spelled out for you feeble little alpha brain: _yes_ , I'd want you to stay. You're, um—” His fingers twisted in the front of Steve's shirt. “—soothing.”

Steve smiled down at him, warm and bright. “I'm glad.”

Brock grinned up at him. “And I'm glad you're glad—and this whole conversation is really stupid all of a sudden.” He laughed, and Steve laughed too.

“Here,” Steve said, guiding them to lie down against the pillows—or, Steve lay against the pillows while Brock lay against his chest. The bed was only a double, so they kind of fit better that way.

Brock hummed happily, snuggling closer. “You feel nice.”

“Thanks,” Steve said, stroking Brock's hair with a feather-light touch. He smiled, warm and fond. “You feel nice too.” It had been...probably far too long since Steve had actually cuddled with anyone. (The very fact that he wasn't even sure he _had_ cuddled with anyone since he was a child with his dam was a pretty clear indication it had been _far_ too long.) It wasn't like he never touched anyone, never gave or received physical affection. But it was generally quick hugs, handshakes, pats on the back or shoulder. Nat ruffling his hair, Bucky elbowing him in the ribs, Sam's hand on his elbow or lower back directing him to look or walk a certain way. This was something so much...more. And it poured into a deep, aching hole in his chest he hadn't quite realized was there. He stroked Brock's hair again, fingertips barely making contact, and whispered, “Sleep.” Brock hummed against his chest contentedly, and eventually his breathing evened out.

o0o

Steve woke up to Brock shivering against his side. The room was warm—very nearly uncomfortably warm—and Brock was shockingly hot to the touch, even through the material of his shirt. And he was shivering. Curling in on himself and pressing tighter to Steve's side, making unhappy, distressed sounds. No _wonder_ he was cold, though; Steve hadn't bothered to pull the covers over them. Shifting, he reached for them, but before he could catch hold of them, Brock awoke with a start.

“Steve,” he said finally, rubbing at his face as he pushed himself up to sit. Making a decidedly unhappy face, he looked down at his own crotch. “Gross.”

Steve's eyes followed Brock's, and...well, objectively, it probably should have been gross, just like Brock said. Glistening slick had soaked through his sweatpants, the wet spot spreading up towards his belly, out across his thighs and back farther than Steve could see. It had to be uncomfortable, sure. It just smelled _so_ good. “Oh,” was all Steve managed to say. His own scent of arousal mingled with the overpowering scent of Brock in heat as it hung about the bed in a cloud.

Brock shoved at him with one hand, jarring Steve at least partway out of his stupor. “Dude, you're really getting a hard-on from this?”

And of course Steve _was_ , insistent and uncomfortable in his too-tight jeans. Steve tore his eyes away from Brock's crotch. “Sorry.” His face flamed. Even his ears blazed. He gestured weakly, trying to offer a lame defence: “The...smell...”

“Right, yeah.” Brock heaved a sigh. “I know. It's not your fault.” He sucked in a sudden breath. “Fuck, it _hurts_ though.”

“'Hurts'?” Steve twisted his fingers in the sheet to keep from reaching out, to keep from trying to _make it better_.

“The, uh...” Brock's features twisted into a grimace. “My _cunt_. It hurts.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “It's gushing slick like a fucking geyser, and it fucking _hurts_.”

“Would it help if you took your pants off?” Steve squeezed his eyes shut. “Shit, that _really_ didn't come out right.”

Brock laughed. “That's amazing,” he said, wiping at his eyes. “I should keep you around.” He bumped his shoulder into Steve's. “You're fucking adorable.” His expression turned thoughtful. “But you know...it might help. At least I wouldn't have hot, slimy, sodden cloth sticking to me down there.”

“Here.” Steve snagged his bath towel from where it hung on the back of the wooden chair. “If you put this down, it'll soak some of it up—it might be more comfortable that way.”

“If you want me to slick all over your bath towel,” Brock said, taking it, “you just gotta _ask_.” Steve's face flamed again. Painfully. Leaning in, Brock kissed his cheek. “You really _are_ adorable, Rogers.”

Steve was about to ask—somehow, awkwardly—if Brock wanted him to leave, when Brock said, frowning, “I left that stupid paper in the kitchen.”

“I'll grab it for you,” Steve said, sliding off the bed. “I can get you something to eat too, if you want.”

Brock shook his head. “Don't think I could eat.” He made a face. “Even thinking about it makes my stomach try to turn itself inside out.” He looked up, meeting Steve's gaze. “But get yourself something if you're hungry.”

“Sure,” Steve said with far more calm confidence than he felt. For one thing, he couldn't possibly eat when Brock was suffering like that. But he took Brock's brilliant cue and left the room to grab the paper from the kitchen table. The air out there, though warm, was clear enough to clear his head a bit. And let his cock calm down a bit.

While he was there, he checked on the stove. Even though he still wasn't really sure what he was looking for. But everything seemed to be okay—it was still burning, and honestly not much time seemed to have passed while they napped. He checked his phone, and...yup. They'd slept for maybe two hours. So it was fine if Brock didn't eat anything, because he'd just had those peanuts. And a beer, which basically counted as food, didn't it? And omegas weren't actually supposed to eat much while in full heat—but they'd need a decent meal after to make up for it.

It really was too bad Steve wasn't a better cook. But he'd figure something out. Even if it wasn't fancy, it would at the very least be nutritious. But that was a worry for later. For now, he needed to help Brock through the actual heat.

He hadn't pulled the door fully closed when he left, but he still rapped on it softly with his knuckles when he returned.

“Yeah, come in,” Brock said.

So Steve pushed the door open. Brock was reclining against the headboard with the sheet draped across his lap. “The stove still looks like it's burning all right,” Steve said, pointing back over his shoulder with his thumb. “I didn't think I should add more wood yet. And I brought you this.”

Steve held out the paper, and Brock took it, saying, “Thanks.” He glanced down at the floor. “Don't step on my slick-soaked clothes unless you want it in your socks. I just dropped them in a heap there.”

“Right,” Steve said. “Did you want me to maybe put them in the washer?”

Brock wrinkled his nose. “Not much point yet, is there? I'm gonna make a lot more laundry before I'm done—might as well do it all in one load.” He snorted. “Assuming it all fits.”

It probably wouldn't, but Steve said, “Okay.” He shifted his weight from one food to the other. “Makes sense. What—what _did_ you want me to do right now?”

Brock rolled his eyes. “Sit down, and _stop worrying_.”

“Sorry,” Steve said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “I guess...” He chuckled, shaking his head. “I guess I do better if I have something to do. If I know I'm helping.”

Brock's eyebrows twisted as he gave Steve a considering look. “Well,” he said after a beat, “you could always rub my feet.”

Maybe he hadn't meant it as a serious suggestion, but it actually sounded like a damn good one. It would probably help them both. So Steve pulled the covers back from Brock's feet, moved so he was sitting cross-legged on the bed with Brock's feet in his lap, and got to work. Brock made a sound that was part groan, part moan. “Does it hurt?” Steve asked.

“My feet?” Brock's brows twisted as he met Steve's gaze. “A bit, but what you're doing is _helping_ , so keep it up.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Steve replied, just loud enough for Brock to hear him.

Brock snickered. “You stole that one from me.”

“Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery,” Steve retorted, pressing insistent circles into the ball of Brock's right foot.

One side of Brock's mouth flickered up in a smirk as he examined the piece of paper in his hands. “Whatever you say.” His brows drew together, and he made a soft, disgusted noise. “So I'm trying to find anything this worthless paper has to say about what to do if your cunt feels like it's imploding, and all it says is, 'stimulation of the vulva and especially the inside of the vagina should lessen the urgency of arousal—a knotting dildo is usually more effective than fingers for this purpose'.” He shot Steve an incredulous look. “'The urgency of arousal'? Is _that_ what this is?”

“Um.” Steve bit the inside of his cheek as he pressed his thumbs into Brock's heel. “Maybe? That's one of the things they told us in school: an omega in heat will often experience arousal to the point of pain. Sometimes extreme pain.” He ducked his head. “Technically, the same thing can happen to an alpha, but...”

“But it's usually because your pants are too constricting?” Brock snickered. “I have a cock too, Steve; I know what that's like.” With a sigh, Brock set the paper aside. “So basically...” He pulled the plastic bag closer. “I'm just supposed to use this thing.” He pulled a white, semi-translucent dildo out of the bag. “Assuming I can figure out how it even works.”

Steve's brow furrowed. “It doesn't have instructions?”

“I guess it does,” Brock said, examining the bottom of it. “It's got one switch labelled 'vibrate' and another labelled 'knot'.” He snorted softly. “I suppose that's pretty self-explanatory. But...” He hefted it in his hand, expression thoughtful. “Isn't it a little...small?” His eyes flicked to Steve's face then back to the dildo. “I mean, it's barely bigger than my own cock, and alpha cocks are supposed to be _huge_.”

“Well...” Steve said, doing his best to properly massage Brock's left ankle. “I'm not exactly an expert on alpha cocks...”

“Come on,” Brock urged, kicking Steve a bit with his right foot. “You _have_ one, so fess up: is this stupid dildo a bit on the small side?”

“I really don't know if my own is a 'normal' sized alpha cock,” Steve hedged. His was bigger than Peggy's, sure, but female alpha's cocks were supposed to be smaller than male alpha's cocks. On average.

But Brock rolled his eyes and kicked him again. “Don't be shy, Rogers.”

“Well...” Steve swallowed. “Maybe it's designed specifically for omegas going through their first heat—and that usually happens when they're about sixteen or so.” Unless they used suppressants. But an omega having their first heat as an adult after going off suppressants would most likely have an alpha partner and no need for a knotting dildo. “I imagine they sell other sizes, but that's the one they hand out at doctor's offices.”

Brock glared, unimpressed, at Steve, at the dildo, then back at Steve. “So you're saying...that not only am I supposed to be satisfied by a plastic dick, but it's also some underage and _undersize_ plastic dick.”

Steve shrugged his shoulders awkwardly. “Maybe I just have an exceptionally large dick.”

Brock rolled his eyes and kicked Steve a bit harder. “Brag some more, Rogers. Brag some more.”

“Well, when I was fifteen mine was about that size!” Steve tried, but of course Brock just kicked him even harder. He was laughing, though, so that was something.

Brock leaned back against the headboard. “Maybe you can just rub my feet forever. That seems to make everything a bit better, at least.”

“I'm glad it's helping,” Steve said. His hands were getting a bit tired, but that was nothing compared to how tired and sore Brock must be, so he couldn't complain.

Brock's eyelids drifted shut and he let his head rest back against the wall. He groaned. “Maybe I should...” He shifted, moving down so he could rest his head on the pillows. He groaned again. “Fuck...”

“Still helping?” Steve checked.

Brock groaned. “I dunno. It still feels _good_ , but...” He fumbled on the sheet for the dildo where he'd dropped it. “Ugh,” he groaned. “I think maybe I need to try this stupid thing.”

“Uh.” Steve dropped his eyes to Brock's feet where the rested in his lap. “Did you want me to leave?”

“ _No_ ,” Brock snapped. “No, I don't want you to leave, because you're _helping_ , but I don't want you to sit there and watch me shove a plastic teen-size knot up by cunt either, because that would be pretty damn weird.”

“Sorry,” Steve said, rubbing apologetically at the arch of Brock's foot.

Brock sighed. “Why don't you take a few minutes and go change into some more comfortable pants? That straining bulge in your jeans is giving my own cock sympathy ache.”

Making a soft sound in his throat, Steve let go of Brock's foot to rub awkwardly at the back of his neck. “Sure.” He slid off the bed. “I'll just go do that then.”

o0o

Steve had barely gotten changed into a pair of loose sweatpants—just the pair he wore to bed the previous night—when there was a frustrated growl from Brock's bedroom. Then a thump like something hitting the wall. Steve poked his head out of his bedroom door. He'd closed the door to Brock's bedroom when he left so Brock would have some privacy. And also to contain some of the overwhelming scent of heat and slick. But mostly because of the privacy thing.

But as Steve watched, the door swung open and Brock stood there shirtless with the sheet wrapped messily around his waist, leaning against the doorframe and shivering. “Steve.” He blinked damp eyes, sniffing and shaking his head.

“Hey.” Steve took half a step towards him.

“I can't—” Brock turned his head away, swallowing. “I need you.”

“All right.” Crossing the hallway, Steve touched Brock's elbow. “What do you need?”

Snorting, Brock rolled his eyes and muttered, “What the hell do you think?”

Steve frowned, really not following. “Brock?”

“Look.” Brock swallowed, hunching his shoulders. “The plastic dick doesn't work, okay? It just doesn't _help_. At all.” He scrubbed one hand back through his sweat-damp hair. He turned wide, helpless eyes on Steve. “I need the real thing.”

Steve just stared at him for a moment. Then he finally said, “You mean...”

Brock made a frustrated sound. “ _Yes_.” He caught ahold of Steve's arm, fingers shaky and damp with sweat. “I need _your_ cock. Please.” Steve should have expected this, honestly, but somehow he'd been blithely pretending it wouldn't happen. But how the hell did an alpha gently turn down an omega in heat, anyway? (Did most alphas even bother trying?) Steve must have been staring dumbly at Brock for too long, because Brock said, “Look, you can't pretend you couldn't get it up, because you're already 'up' and have been up for quite a while. And—and, Steve.” He swallowed, shaking his head as though trying to clear it. “You wouldn't have to look at me: you could just close your eyes and enjoy how I _smell_. You _like_ how I smell.”

“I do,” Steve assured him, bringing his hand up to stroke the side of Brock's face. Omegas in heat needed reassurance, and while Brock might not technically be an omega, the same was probably true of him while he was in heat. “I really and truly like how you smell; you smell amazing.” Brock leaned into Steve's touch with a quiet, broken sound partway between a sob and a groan. “I need you to sit down, all right?” Steve steered Brock towards the bed, and Brock sat, wobbling a bit like he was about to fall over. “Have some water,” Steve instructed, handing him the water bottle.

Brock swallowed some of the water then looked at Steve. “How much do I have to drink?”

“As much as you want.” Steve sat down on the edge of the bed.

“I just want your _cock_ ,” Brock whined, setting the water bottle on the nightstand.

“I know,” Steve replied, touching Brock's bare bicep. He tired not to blush, because it wasn't like Brock _meant_ anything he was saying.

Brock chewed unhappily on his bottom lip. “Why are you making me wait?”

“I think you should try the dildo again,” Steve said as gently as he could. “I don't think you gave it enough of a chance.”

Eyes hardening, Brock slapped Steve's hand away. “What the hell would _you_ know? Have you ever had a cunt? Ever been in heat?”

“I could hold you,” Steve offered. “If that would help. I wouldn't have to watch you do it.” Maybe what Brock really needed was the touch. It was probably a huge shock to his heat-inflamed body and psyche when Steve left the room, even if he intellectually understood that he'd asked Steve to go. That was something alphas were supposed to _avoid_ when helping omegas through heat, now that Steve finally remembered the instructions he'd gotten in school. There was a significant danger of omegas feeling abandoned, even if left alone for short periods. It was little wonder Brock was so irrational now. “Here.” Leaning over, Steve picked the dildo off the floor where it had apparently bounced off the wall. It was slick with, well, slick. “I suppose we should wash it, even though the floor doesn't seem too dirty...” The floor was varnished wood, and the dildo didn't have any visible lint or anything on it.

Making a frustrated sound, Brock grabbed the dildo out of Steve's hand. “I don't _want_ it, all right?” He shook it, angrily. “It's stupid and small and—I _hate_ it.”

“Brock...” Steve tried, though what could he really say? Bigger dildos existed. Somewhere. Steve couldn't very well leave Brock to go shopping for one, though.

Brock shook his head. “I hate it. I tried it already.” His lip curled and his eyes flashed as he glared at Steve. “Stop being so fucking stubborn!” He threw the dildo across the room with considerable force. It ricocheted off the wall with a sharp thunk and the cap popped off the bottom, revealing the battery compartment. Brock glared at Steve. “You said yourself that your cock is better.”

“I never said _that_!” Steve protested. “I never said it was 'better'.”

Brock rolled his eyes. “It's a cock, Steve; 'bigger' means 'better'.” That really wasn't true, but there would be little point in attempting to argue with Brock about it. Steve just sighed. Brock grabbed his wrist, his fingers biting into Steve's skin. “And your cock is made of real human flesh and—” He shook his head, reaching up with his other hand to shove sweaty hair off his forehead. “Steve, I—I wouldn't have to flick some switch to make it knot.”

“Did you try that with the dildo?” Steve asked.

“Yes!” Brock yelled. “I did, and it didn't make it better!” He shook his head miserably, dropping his gaze. “It just—it wasn't doing what it was supposed to. It didn't feel good.” Sniffing, Brock rubbed at his nose. “Why are you _arguing_ with me? It would feel good for you; I swear I could be good for you.”

“That's not the point,” Steve said gently.

“I know I'm ugly!” Brock gasped, and there were tears spilling down his cheeks. “I—” He gasped. “I know I'm not a proper omega and I'm not a beta like you _like_ either. Or an alpha! Or _anything_!”

“Hey, no,” Steve said, putting his hand on Brock's shoulder. “That's—that's not—”

“It isn't fair!” Brock's nails bit into Steve's wrist, and he give it rough a shake. “I _need_ you! It's not my fault that I look like this!”

“Brock,” Steve tired, twisting his wrist out of Brock's grip so he could catch him by both sides of his face. (And also so Brock wouldn't draw blood, because _holy shit_.) “Brock, listen to me: there is _nothing wrong_ with how you look.”

Brock's lower lip trembled and more tears spilled out onto his cheeks. “Then _fuck_ me already!”

“Brock...” Steve pressed a kiss to his heated, sweat-damp forehead. “I can't do that.”

“You _can_!” Brock jerked his head unhappily in Steve's grip. “You—” He bit his lip, hiccuping a bit. His eyes flashed with anger. “Either give me your knot or get the hell out.”

“Brock...” Steve tried. He couldn't abandon Brock again!

But Brock grabbed his wrists and wrenched his hands away from his face. “Those are your choices here: do you want to help me, or do you want to just let me suffer?”

“I want to help you!” Steve insisted. He wanted that more than anything!

“Great,” Brock said, letting Steve's wrists go. “Finally.”

He made a grab for Steve's waistband, but Steve caught his wrists. “Brock, we need to talk about this.”

“I don't _want_ to talk!” Brock insisted, struggling in Steve's much stronger grip. “I—I already told you—”

“ _No_ ,” Steve said. He was careful to keep his grip on Brock's wrists firm but not hard enough to bruise. Far too often when he was younger and just finally enjoying the effects of his late puberty, he'd managed to leave accidental bruises on Bucky in their roughhousing. Bucky'd always laughed it off, but this was different. This wasn't roughhousing, anyway. “Brock, I need you to listen to me right now.” Brock bit his lip and didn't say anything. Steve sighed. “I know it hurts. I know everything about this is miserable for you. And I understand why you're asking for my cock. You're in heat. I'm an alpha. It's basic biology.” He sighed again. “But, Brock, this isn't anything you'd want if you weren't in heat—hell, you don't even _like_ me!” Okay, so that last part was a bit childish, but Steve wasn't exactly at his most rational himself.

“But I would want you!” Brock insisted. Fresh tears ran down his face, but he ignored them. “You don't understand.” He shook his head. “I didn't—didn't want you to know, but I've wanted you...” He sniffed and wet his lips. “...since you shoved me down on my back by the thimbleberries. And I wasn't in heat then! I wanted you _so bad_.” He closed his eyes, and more tears leaked out to trail glistening paths down his cheeks. “But I couldn't have you, because you couldn't know.” He shook his head. “But you know _now_. You know already.” He leaned forward and Steve let him bury his face in his shoulder. Brock whispered, “You know.”

Letting Brock's wrists go from his loosened grip—it had loosened while Brock spoke, while Brock was no longer struggling—Steve stroked his hands from the back of Brock's head, down his neck and back. If—if what Brock was saying was true... If it wasn't just some desperate thing he was trying in his heat-addled state... Maybe—maybe it wouldn't be so bad to give him what he wanted.

“I do like you,” Brock admitted, voice rough. He pressed his face into the curve of Steve's neck. “I'm just—scared.”

“Oh.” Tears sprung to Steve's own eyes, and he pressed a kiss to the side of Brock's head. “I'm so sorry.” His chest constricted painfully. “I never meant to scare you.” God, he really _had_ fucked things up, hadn't he? No wonder Brock had been so combative.

“I know.” Brock's breath was warm and damp against Steve's neck. “I know you never meant to.” His fingers twisted a bit in the hem of Steve's t-shirt.

“If it helps...” Steve laughed, but it caught in his chest. He shook his head. “You terrify me too. Sometimes.”

Brock pulled back, offering Steve a watery smile. “I try _so_ hard, you know.”

Steve smiled, soft and hesitant. He brushed a damp curl off Brock's forehead. “I know.” It honestly must be so exhausting to try so hard all the time. To try so hard for his entire life. It made sense that he was so jealous of Steve for just _being_. Shifting a bit, he put a hand on Brock's arm. “Hey, lie down.”

Nodding, Brock moved to obey, but he shot Steve a questioning look. “Are—are you going to fuck me?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, running a hand down Brock's arm and offering him a gentle smile. “Yeah, I am.” And maybe it wasn't _right_. Maybe there wasn't a 'right' for this, just varying degrees of wrong. But it felt _kind_.

“Oh.” Brock grinned up at him, relived and thankful. His eyes flickered to Steve's crotch then back to his face. “Can—can I see your cock?”

One side of Steve's lips curled up. “Of course.” He pulled his shirt off first, tossing it onto the floor, then slid his sweatpants and boxer-briefs down over his hips until his hard cock sprang free. Tugging them off the rest of the way along with his socks he tossed those off the bed as well. Kneeling naked on Brock's bed and feeling a bit self-conscious, he gestured to his exposed body and asked, “So, what do you think?”

Brock laughed. “I think you need to fuck me already.” He shifted his hips restlessly and bit his lip. “But...you also look really amazing, Steve.” Dark eyes zeroed in on Steve's cock where it jutted, hard and unashamed, from his body. Brock licked his lips. “Your cock is _huge_.”

“It's not _too_ big, is it?” Maybe that would be a problem. Brock had said his vagina was 'a bit small', and Steve honestly didn't have a lot of experience with vaginas—at least not with putting his cock in them. It's not that Steve had never had sex before; he'd just never had any sort of penetrative sex involving his cock.

Laughing, Brock ran a hand down Steve's thigh. “How would I know? I just know it looks perfect.”

Steve gently stroked Brock's temple with his fingertips. “Promise me you'll tell me if it hurts.”

“It hurts _now_ ,” Brock grumbled, shifting unhappily on the bed. “You're supposed to help with that.”

“You'll tell me if it doesn't help, then,” Steve said. “Or if it hurts worse...or even in a different way.”

Brock thumped his head against the pillow. “All right, all right!” He shot Steve a narrow-eyed glare. “I promise, okay?” He pressed his lips together. “Can we get on with this already?”

“Okay.” Leaning down, Steve brushed a kiss against Brock's heated forehead. He ran his hands down Brock's sides until they met the edge of the sheet where it still lay across Brock's lap. Pausing, he met Brock's eyes. “I promise you, you are beautiful. No part of you is ugly.” Brock's chest hitched and something glimmered in his eyes, but he didn't argue. Sitting back on his heels so he could see all of Brock, Steve pulled the sheet aside.

Brock closed his eyes and his cheeks reddened further—a new blush atop the general redness from his heat. Steve stroked his knee soothingly, not quite touching the slick that glistened even that far down his legs. Some may have even dripped on the floor before, but Steve could just clean it up later. Without opening his eyes, Brock asked, “Like—like what you see?”

“I do,” Steve told him. It was _strange_ , sure. Not something Steve's mind expected. But there was nothing 'wrong' with any of it. Not even the underdeveloped balls. They just were. They were a part of Brock. Steve moved, positioning himself between Brock's legs and encouraging them to spread wider. A new gush of slick greeted him, and Steve grinned. The light glistened off slick-soaked curls, framing the glossy pink of his vulva. “You are _so_ beautiful.” He brought Brock's hand to his mouth and kissed it.

Brock let out a helpless groan, eyes closed as he moved restlessly. “Please...”

Steve gripped Brock's knee. “I know it's difficult right now, but I need to you be patient. Just a bit.” Because despite how some stupid part of him urged Steve to just plunge forward with his cock—and wasn't that what Brock _wanted?_ —Steve couldn't risk injuring him. So he ran his fingers through the slick up the inside of Brock's thigh, earning shivers and twitches and gasps, and carefully explored Brock's vulva—earning hisses and groans—and then inside: Brock's vagina was perhaps a little small compared to what Steve knew as 'normal'. Which, to be fair, was a pretty limited sample size that mostly consisted of a single female alpha. But he had paid attention in sex ed in school, had seen diagrams. Most importantly, vaginas were designed to stretch, and Brock's slick channel moved and responded easily to Steve's probing fingers. Brock made a kind of incoherent 'ahh!' sound, and a fresh gush of slick soaked Steve's hand. “All right?” Steve checked, hoping he hadn't hurt him.

“Yes,” Brock gasped. “Yes, _please_...”

Steve slid a third finger inside to be sure it would fit and to help the vagina stretch, and Brock gasped, hips jerking upwards and grinding onto Steve's fingers. That probably meant it felt good. Steve couldn't help chuckling just a bit. “You like my fingers?” he teased.

“They're fine,” Brock grumbled, his own fingers twisting in the bedding at his sides, “but—” He glared at Steve. “Can I have your cock already?”

Steve laughed, twisting his fingers a bit just to see Brock's eyes cross. “Just wanted to make sure I wouldn't hurt you.”

Brock drew a shaky breath, letting it out through his nose. He swallowed. “You're a real saint.”

Steve shrugged one shoulder as he pushed his fingers deeper and then spread them apart. “I try.”

Brock laughed, pressing both hands over his eyes for a moment. He peeked at Steve, biting his lip. “Well, can you quit trying to be a saint for about a second and get your cock in me?”

So long as Steve wasn't too fast or too forceful, Brock should be okay. “All right.” Steve slid his fingers out, and Brock gasped, but Steve had the head of his cock there to slide it in, and Brock's eyes fluttered closed and he relaxed back against the bed. Steve grinned a bit. “That good?”

“Might be the best thing I've ever felt,” Brock slurred.

Steve chuckled. “I've only got the head in.”

“Well, by all means,” Brock said, rocking his hips a bit, “put the rest of it in.”

“Gotta give you time to stretch,” Steve insisted. He was probably gripping Brock's hips a little too tightly, but—hell—even with just the head in, it felt _so_ good.

“Doesn't— _hurt_ , Steve,” Brock gasped, rocking his hips more forcefully.

“Don't _want_ it to hurt,” Steve shot back. This was supposed to help Brock feel _better_. That was the whole point. He made his hands relax their grip on Brock's hips and stroked over his reddened skin in apology. It was probably safest to give Brock most of the control, as Brock was unlikely to actually injure himself. Probably. Hopefully. “You move how you want to.”

Letting out a whispered string of profanity, Brock rolled his hips, thrusting up against Steve, working Steve's cock into him. His hands moved to grasp at Steve's arms, pulling Steve down on top of him. He made a soft 'oof' sound, but he mumbled, “Feels so good,” and Steve still supported most of his weight on his elbows so he wouldn't actually crush him. Brock wrapped his legs around Steve's waist, pressing at Steve's lower back with one heel, giving himself leverage for the rolls of his hips. “Oh, fuck,” Brock panted. His hips jerked a bit and Steve slid further in. Swallowing, Brock heaved a shaky breath. “How much more you got, Rogers?”

“Um.” Steve scraped his teeth over his bottom lip. “It's about two thirds of the way in.”

Brock let out a broken laugh and jiggled his hips. “Come on, Rogers: don't be shy.” Steve groaned, shaking a bit from the effort of holding himself back. Brock honestly smelled _so_ good. And felt _so_ good. It would be utter bliss to let go and let himself be lost in that: in the heat and the sweetness and the slick and the wonder of it all. It was Steve's turn to let out a whispered string of profanity, eyes squeezed shut. “Come _on_ ,” Brock repeated, rolling his hips again. Then he clenched around Steve's cock, and all the air left Steve's lungs in one rough gasp as he concentrated all his willpower on _not_ actually knotting when he wasn't all the way in yet.

“Don't—don't do that,” Steve managed once he could form speech-like sounds again. “Not if you want me to knot inside you.”

Brock laughed, a little surprised and a little strained. “Noted.” He pressed his heel into Steve's lower back. “Just so we're clear: moving my hips is still okay? Because...” He closed his eyes and swallowed, hands clutching at Steve's sides. “If _you're_ not going to move, I'm not sure how else to _get_ it inside.”

“Yeah—yes.” Steve had his breath back; it was probably safe for them to move a bit. He eased his hips forward a little, and Brock groaned. “It was just...the clenching. I guess. Mostly.”

Brock laughed again, more relaxed this time. He wiggled his hips a bit. “You always this eloquent when you're fucking?”

“No idea,” Steve retorted as he eased forward a bit more. “Never done this before.”

“Wait, you—” Brock frowned up at him in confusion. “You mean you've never fucked an omega in heat before; you're not a _virgin_.”

“I've—” Steve paused, resting his forehead against Brock's shoulder and panting for a bit. “I've had sex. Some kinds of sex. Just—just never—I guess...anything...you could call...'fucking'.”

“Oh, gods.” Laughing, Brock squeezed his eyes shut, tipping his head back. “You _are_ a virgin!” He slapped Steve on the bicep. “That's _amazing_!”

“I am _not_!” Steve protested. Though, really, there wouldn't be anything wrong or bad or shameful if he was. He just _wasn't_.

“Okay, but,” Brock said, rolling his hips insistently, “ _I've_ fucked someone, and I've never let anyone see me naked before.”

“Good for you,” Steve ground out as he ever so carefully worked his cock further in, millimetre by tortuous millimetre. “Congratulations. Did—did you want a cookie? An 'I fucked someone' ribbon to commemorate your achievement?” Honestly, society in general's insistent obsession with everyone's sexual history was pretty pathetic.

Brock stared up at him, eyes wide and dark. “I just want your knot.” Biting his lower lip, he whined a bit and wiggled his hips. “Please.”

“Okay,” Steve said, kissing the tip of his nose. “Just a little more—” He eased himself forward and finally bottomed out. He'd meant to say something like 'there', but all he managed was, “Oh.” Because nothing had ever, ever, _ever_ felt that good. Not his own hand, not anyone else's hand. No amount of warm water and slick soap.

Brock ground up against him, his own cock hard, hot, and throbbing where it was trapped between their bodies. “Fuck,” he whispered. “Tell me it's in all the way.”

“Yeah,” Steve managed, and Brock let out a relieved giggle and clenched around him once again, heel digging hard into Steve's back, and— “Oh, God.” Steve's knot swelled as stars burst in blinding incandescence behind his eyes.

“Wow, Steve...” Brock slurred, one hand moving against Steve's side in weak, fumbling strokes. He lay under Steve, completely loose and languid, eyelids heavy and smile wide.

“Mmmm.” Steve pushed up a bit on his arms and nuzzled at Brock's temple. It was...wonderful. Brock was wonderful. Everything was warm and beautiful and perfect. “Wanna sleep for a bit?”

Brock blinked up at him, slow and lazy. “Sure...”

“Want me to turn us over?” Because as big as Brock was, Steve was still bigger. He pressed his face into the curve of Brock's neck, breathing deeply. Brock honestly smelled _so_ good.

Brock's hand move against his side again. “If...if you want.”

Steve grinned. “Gotta—gotta show off my alpha strength.”

Brock smiled, broad and dopey. “'M already impressed—just so you know.” Making sure he had a good grip on Brock, Steve flipped them over. He ended up with half his ass in a puddle of slick, but he couldn't particularly care. Brock rested his head on Steve's chest. “You're—you're really the best thing ever.”

Steve chuckled and kissed the top of Brock's head. He stroked his hands up and down Brock's lax arms. “Sleep now.” Brock just hummed in response, and Steve managed to grab a corner of the bedspread and tug it over them. It'd need to be washed after, but that was all right. He was going to be doing a lot of laundry, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Time and chance happen to everyone' is from Ecclesiastes 9:11. Steve paraphrases the last line; the entirety of Ecclesiastes 9:11 in the RSVCE is, 'Again I saw that under the sun the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, nor bread to the wise, nor riches to the intelligent, nor favor to the men of skill; but time and chance happen to them all.' (Something Jean Luc Picard put another way: 'It is possible to commit no mistakes and still lose. That is not a weakness; that is life.')
> 
> 'Imitation is the sincerest of flattery' is a quote that, according to Wikipedia, originates with English cleric and writer, Charles Caleb Colton.
> 
> Notes on characters and canon:  
> 'Bruce' is of course Doctor Bruce Banner as seen in various MCU films.


	4. Chapter 4

Brock's sticky body pulling away from his woke Steve up. He made a grumpy sound, rubbing at his face then said, “Brock?”

“Uh.” Brock swayed a bit where he stood naked next to the bed. “I need...” He gestured vaguely towards the door of the bedroom.

“Bathroom?” Steve guessed, pushing himself up to sit. The sheet stuck unpleasantly to the skin of his ass and congealing slick slid in wobbly lumps through his pubic hair. Okay, that was pretty gross. It didn't even smell as good as it did fresh.

“I—really need a shower.” Brock wasn't looking at Steve. Hadn't met his eyes yet.

Sliding his feet off the bed and onto the floor, Steve held back the words, 'I'll go with you,' and instead said, “You can barely stand,” which probably wasn't much better, even if it was in fact true.

As if to prove Steve's point, Brock grabbed the back of the wooden chair with one hand. He drew and let out a shaky breath, still looking everywhere but at Steve. “Look, I'm gross. You're gross. The bed's gross...” He gestured towards it with the hand that wasn't white-knuckling the back of the chair. “Figured I'd wash everything off and go fall into _your_ bed for a while.” He swallowed, gripping the back of the chair with his other hand too. “You can—” His eyes flicked to Steve's then away again. “You can join me. If you want.”

Steve offered him a small, soft smile. “Join you in the shower or just in my bed?”

“Um.” Brock scratched his fingers through his hair. “'Both' works. Since—” He gestured to Steve. “Since you need to shower too, and—there's only the one.”

Internally, Steve let himself breathe a gigantic sigh of relief. It just wouldn't be _safe_ for Brock to try to shower by himself yet. That being true, heat recovery was also a very vulnerable time, so Steve needed to be extra careful not to spook or upset him. Especially since Brock was clearly already uncomfortable. “All right.” Steve stood up. Nodding to Brock's towel where it hung over the back of the chair, he asked, “Do we have any other towels?” He'd be okay with drying off with his t-shirt if need be. Wouldn't be the first time.

“Um.” Brock bit his lip, turning his head as his brows drew together thoughtfully. “There might be some in a sort of...cupboard thing in the hallway.”

“Right,” Steve said. “I think I've seen it.” It had a sliding door; he hadn't thought to check inside, hadn't quite been curious enough. He touched Brock's elbow. “How about you go get started in the bathroom, and I'll see if I can find another towel.”

Brock gave him a shaky nod in return, but he didn't pull away from Steve's touch.

o0o

Steve slid the wooden panel aside to reveal a small compartment in the wall. Folded towels sat on the wooden shelf: one pale, dull blue and clearly a hand-towel; the other dark, dull green and quite a bit bigger. He unfolded it. It's fabric rasped against his fingers and it was on the small side for a bath towel, but it was certainly better than an already worn t-shirt.

Brock hadn't closed the bathroom door completely, but Steve rapped softly on it anyway.

“Yeah,” Brock said. “Come in.”

Swinging the door open enough to enter, Steve hung the towel next to Brock's on the rack and closed the door behind him. Brock was already in the shower, pressed back into the corner with his hands flat against the tile walls. “Hey,” Steve said, as he stepped into the tub.

“Hey,” Brock replied, gaze catching somewhere around Steve's jaw.

Steve pulled the curtain closed behind him. He shot Brock a worried look. “You okay?”

Brock grimaced. “I'm still a little wobbly. Didn't want to fall and break something.”

Steve nodded. It was good, actually, that Brock was being careful. “I think maybe you were supposed to sleep for a bit longer.”

Snorting, Brock shook his head. “Once I woke up, I couldn't get back to sleep.”

“Yeah, I get that.” Stooping down, Steve picked up his body wash and Brock's body wash. “Should we both use the same one? Seems...less complicated that way.”

“Sure.” Brock offered him a bit of a grin. His eyes flicked to the bottles. “But isn't yours supposed to be 'formulated specifically for alphas'?”

Steve shrugged, setting that bottle back down. “Pretty sure that's just marketing; I've used Bucky's stuff plenty of times and it seems to work the same.”

Brock snorted as Steve poured some of Brock's body wash into his hand. “You use his body wash?”

“Yeah, plenty of times.” Steve set the bottle down on the edge of the tub. “Ever since we were teens. Like, if I stay over at his place, or whatever.” He rubbed his hands together, making the soap foam. “Do you want me to help wash you?”

“Sure,” Brock said. “Not sure I could quite—” He tried to straighten up, took half a wavering step, and grabbed onto Steve. Panting, he rested his forehead against Steve's shoulder. “—manage it.”

“All right,” Steve said, wrapping one arm securely around Brock to hold him up. “Let's get you cleaned up, then—without any concussions or broken bones.”

“Sounds good,” Brock said, lips brushing Steve's skin—probably by accident, but it still made Steve's dumb heart flutter.

It was a little tricky, but with some help from Brock, Steve managed to soap up and rinse off most of both of them. “You've been avoiding the naughty bits,” Brock commented when Steve had just rinsed the last of the shampoo out of his hair.

“Have I?” Steve poured a bit more body wash into his hand. “Maybe I was saving the best for last.”

Brock let out a surprised laugh, fingers tight where they gripped Steve's arm. “Right. Whatever you say.”

“Did you want me to wash the rest of you?” Steve asked, expression and tone serious. “I could help you stand and let you do it yourself.”

Brock looked down at himself then back up at Steve. “I don't mind you touching it.”

Steve's brow furrowed. “But do you want me to?”

Brock rolled his eyes. “You're so damn _hesitant_ , Rogers.” Grabbing Steve's hand, he pressed it against his cock. “Please touch my junk, Rogers.” He moved Steve's hand, spreading the soap over his cock and through the dark hair there. “Please.” Keeping a good grip around Brock's waist with his other arm, Steve scrubbed the soap through the hair, around Brock's cock, over his balls, and back around the outside of his vulva. Grinning, Brock pressed a quick kiss to Steve's cheek. “There ya go.” Steve pulled back Brock's foreskin and washed around the head as Brock's cock hardened in his hand. Brock pressed closer to Steve's side. “Ngh.”

“All right?” Steve checked.

Brock made a frustrated sound. “Yes! Gods.”

Steve nodded gravely as he turned Brock into the shower's spray to rinse the soap away. “I want to make sure you understand,” he said, “I see _nothing wrong_ with your genitals; I don't have a problem with how they look, how they're shaped, or how they feel. That's not why I'm 'hesitant' as you put it, all right?” He ran his fingers through the hair to help rinse out the soap. “I just want to make sure that you're comfortable with how and when I'm touching you. Because it's your body, and you have the right to say what happens to it.”

Brock grunted, pressing his face into Steve's neck. “Guess I'm just not used to it. I mean, I guess the only people I really let even see most of it were doctors—and they never seemed to care how I felt about any of it.”

“I'm sorry,” Steve said, resting his hand on Brock's hip and just letting the water run over the both of them. “I think I kind of know what that's like. A bit.” He made a face. “I had to see a lot of doctors when I was a kid. I think most of them don't mean any harm, but they can often be very brusque and business-like—and I guess, in my experience, that doesn't always help.”

“Yeah,” Brock said, pushing himself up to stand a little straighter. “Sometimes they don't even _say_ what they're gonna do—I mean, I guess I prefer some warning.”

Steve nodded. “Yeah, exactly.”

Brock grunted, wrinkling his nose. “Wow, that got real un-sexy real fast.”

“Sorry,” Steve said, chuckling softly.

Brock peeked up at him from under dark lashes, tiny water droplets clinging to them. “Would it be weird if I kissed you?”

“I don't know,” Steve admitted, laughing softly. “But I don't think so.”

“Oh.” Turning towards Steve, Brock added, “I just—” His nose bumped Steve's, and he pulled back a bit. “Sorry, I— _fuck_.”

“Hey,” Steve said, cupping the side of Brock's face. “It's all right.”

Brock's face pinched a bit with a sad sort of worry. “Do you even _want_ to kiss me?”

“Absolutely,” Steve whispered, stroking his thumb over Brock's cheek. “So long as you want to kiss me.”

Brock surged forward, pressing their mouths together. “Sorry—” He kissed Steve again. “I just—” He nipped at Steve's bottom lip. “I really—” He pressed his forehead against Steve's, eyes closed. “Fuck.”

“You're craving affection,” Steve told him. “It's normal.”

Brock laughed, rough and edged with bitterness. “I've never 'craved affection' in my life.”

Oh, but he must have. Everyone did. “Well,” Steve said, swallowing. “I have. I—” Looking down he shook his head. He swallowed again. “Sometimes it feels like a bottomless hole in my chest. Like I'll never get enough.”

“Fuck, Rogers.” Brock shoved at his shoulder. “You shouldn't be _single_.” He let out a small, rough laugh. “I'm pretty sure that means you shouldn't be single.”

“I'll, um—” Steve's cheeks heated uncomfortably. “I'll take that under advisement.”

Brock hummed and his stubble scraped against Steve's wet collarbone. “Are you gonna finish washing us?”

“Sure.” Steve turned Brock back to face the spray, pressing his back to Steve's own front. He slid his hand down over Brock's hip into the cleft where his thigh joined his body. “You're sure you want me to do this part?” he whispered against the damp, sweetly fresh-smelling skin of Brock's neck.

“Yeah,” Brock replied thickly, head falling back to rest on Steve's shoulder.

Steve slid one finger in between Brock's labia and Brock gasped. “Wow,” he said, swallowing, “it's still so sensitive.”

“Does it hurt?” Steve checked.

“No,” Brock replied. “Feels—feels _good_.” Reassured, Steve slid a second finger between the labia and spread them. Pulling Brock's cock and balls out of the way with his other hand, Steve to let the water rinse over Brock's vulva. Groaning, Brock pressed back against Steve, and whispered, “Fuck...”

Steve kissed the side of his neck. “Do you want more?”

“Y-yeah.” Brock shuddered, one hand clutching at the front of Steve's thigh. He swallowed roughly. “Inside.” He rolled his head back and forth a bit on Steve's shoulder. “Please.”

The angle was a bit awkward, but Steve managed to slide one finger into Brock's vagina. Brock cried out, and Steve kissed the side of his neck again, whispering assurances like 'I've got you' and 'so beautiful'. If the water wouldn't get cold long before his knot would go down... Steve bit his lip. There wasn't much point continuing that line of thought. A cold shower wouldn't be good for Brock, not when he was just barely starting to recover from his heat. So Steve brought him off with his fingers—two curled inside, pressing where the knot would, and his other hand wrapped around his cock.

As Steve was helping Brock wash off again afterwards, Brock gestured to Steve's mostly hard cock. “Do—do you want—?”

Steve grimaced, shaking his head. “The knot takes an hour to go down.”

“Right.” Brock shook his head too. “I guess I never really thought about how inconvenient that must be.”

“Well.” Steve shrugged one shoulder, offering Brock a crooked half-smile. “At least I get the immunity thing.”

o0o

Stepping out of the tub, Steve grabbed Brock's towel first and handed it to him then grabbed the other towel and scrubbed it over his face and hair. Turning back, he twisted his eyebrows at Brock who was still standing in the tub. Brock offered him a weak smile. “Not sure I could get out without falling on my face.” Shit. Steve should have thought of that already! Brock hadn't been able to _stand_ on his own for most of the shower, why would he be able to step out of it on his own now?

“I can help you,” Steve said, quickly wrapping the towel about his waist and reaching for Brock's elbow. “Or,” he added with a bit of a grin, making his grip warm and sure on Brock's arm, “I suppose I could _carry_ you.”

“Oh could you?” Brock challenged. He wiped a drop of water off his chin with his towel. “You think you could lift me and _carry_ me all the—”

Steve laughed at the look on Brock's face as he was—literally—swept off his feet. He pressed a quick kiss to Brock's forehead. “Pretty sure I can.”

Brock laughed, surprised and a little nervous. Breathless. “Okay then.” He pressed his lips together. “I'm...impressed.” He shook his head in amazement. “I weigh at _least_ one hundred and seventy pounds.”

Steve twitched one shoulder in a shrug. “I can easily lift two hundred.”

Brock grumbled something about 'alphas', but Steve didn't bother asking him to repeat it. Making his way carefully through the bathroom door into the really quite toasty hallway and then through yet another door into his bedroom, Steve deposited Brock—gently—on the middle of his bed.

“Yeah, well,” Brock said after a moment, “just be glad this whole 'heat' thing's got me loopy; I'm not usually so easy to impress.”

Steve sat down just on the edge of the bed next to him, one side of his lips turned up. “I kinda got the impression you were mostly _impossible_ to impress.”

Brock made a sort of noncommittal noise, wrinkling his nose a bit. “Maybe that's just what I want you to think.”

Steve chuckled. “Figures.” He nodded to the towel in Brock's lap. “Get dried off—unless you wanted me to help with that.”

Brock smirked, peeking at him from under his brows. “You really take this whole 'taking care of me' thing seriously, don't you?”

“Hey,” Steve said, brushing a barely there kiss to Brock's damp shoulder and shrugging a bit, “it's my job.”

Brock muttered something else about 'alphas', but he handed the towel over. As Steve slid off the bed to properly dry Brock's calves and feet, Brock said, “Okay, but...you're at least twenty-five, right?”

“Twenty-seven,” Steve clarified, rubbing the towel over the dark hair on Brock's shin.

Brock shook his head. “That's even worse.”

“'Worse'?” Steve looked up as he wrapped the towel around Brock's other calf.

“Well.” Brock sniffed, wrinkling his nose a bit. “You told me you'd never fucked anyone.”

“And...?” Steve prompted, because Brock better darn well have some point with this.

“ _And_ ,” Brock said with a bit of a huff, “you can't jerk off like a normal person—how the hell do you _survive_? Aren't alphas supposed to have an even higher sex drive? Like, the highest of all?”

Steve chuckled as he rubbed a bit of the towel between Brock's toes. “I'm pretty sure most of that whole 'highest sex drive' thing is actually _because_ we can't 'jerk off like a normal person'.”

“Right,” Brock said, nodding thoughtfully. “That would make sense.”

“And...” Steve shrugged. He rubbed the towel gently behind Brock's knee. “It actually works okay in the tub.”

“Oh,” Brock said, understanding dawning on his face, “like in the bath?”

Steve nodded, rubbing the towel behind Brock's other knee. “It's a lot easier to sit there for an hour.”

“Well...” Brock said as Steve stood up and dropped the towel in his lap, “I mean, if you wanted someone to fuck now and then...I wouldn't exactly be opposed to it...”

Steve grinned, ruffling Brock's damp hair. “Sort of like a 'fuck-buddy' arrangement?”

Brock grinned up at Steve. “Exactly. So...” He tilted his head to one side. “What do you think?”

“I think that sounds really great,” Steve admitted as he turned to his open suitcase to find some clothes to wear. “I also think we should wait until you're fully done recovering from your heat and then discuss how we're going to define things.” He bit the inside of his lip. “You might feel differently once your hormones have levelled off.”

“You think I'm going to suddenly want to tell someone _else_ I'm a freak?” Brock asked, voice edged with a harsh coldness. “Show some _other_ alpha my junk and hope he doesn't freak the hell out?”

Sighing, Steve turned back to him. That was exactly the reason they shouldn't be having this conversation in that moment; Brock's emotions were far too raw. “I think, Brock, that you shouldn't be limited—”

“But I _am_!” Brock rolled his eyes. He rubbed the towel at the side of his jaw. “I don't think I 'should' be either, and yet this is the body I was born with!” Dropping the towel, he spread his hands. “There's not much I can do about it.” He grimaced, dropping his gaze and turning his head away. “I wasn't asking you to _bond_ me or anything like that...”

“Brock...” Moving closer, Steve placed his hands on Brock's shoulders. “I'm not saying 'no', okay? I'm not saying 'no'.” The touched Brock's jaw lightly with his fingertips. “Can we just sleep for a bit more? And then I'll make us something to eat.” He frowned, letting his hand fall back to Brock's shoulder. “Unless you're hungry now?”

Brock shook his head. Glancing up, he met Steve's eyes for a brief moment. “Sleeping sounds good.”

o0o

Steve had been dozing for a while when Brock shifted at his side and mumbled sleepily, “Steve?”

Alertness came on Steve like a wave—did Brock need something? Food? More water? Turning his head to look at him, Steve said, “Yeah?”

Brock yawned, blinking. “If—if I do...feel differently...about you...” He grimaced. “Once all this is over and there's no more hormones or whatever...” He wrinkled his nose. “Well, I guess...I just wanted you to know that I like you right _now_.” His hand found Steve's under the covers and he threaded their fingers together. “A lot.” He turned confused and vulnerable eyes on Steve. “That—that still counts for something, right?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, stroking his back and pressing a light kiss to his forehead. He squeezed their fingers together—not tight, just enough that Brock would feel a secure hold. “Yeah. Pretty sure it does.” With a soft smile, Brock laid his head down on Steve's chest, closing his eyes. Steve stroked his fingers through Brock's hair and Brock hummed contentedly.

It was so peaceful. The sun peeked through the curtains, playing across their bodies and the bed. Everything was warm. Everything sort of glowed—like a halo.

Steve let himself drift off again.

o0o

Closing the washing machine's lid, Steve punched the button to get the cycle started. He was _almost_ done all the laundry, but sheets, blankets, and bedspreads took up a lot of space and therefore took a lot longer than things like clothing and towels. It was really very convenient, though, that the tiny cabin even had a washer big enough for a bedspread, because driving it all into wherever the nearest laundromat happened to be would be exceptionally inconvenient, especially considering the still strong smell of heat and slick on everything.

He looked down the short hallway to where he could see Brock curled up on the couch with a blanket about his shoulders. Steve had rebuilt and relit the fire he'd managed to let go out, so the cabin was pretty toasty again. But Brock was still recovering. If he felt the need for a blanket, he should damn well have a blanket. As Steve watched, Brock lifted his mug of coffee to his lips and took a sip, all the while staring at the wood stove, apparently absorbed in the dance of the flames where they peeked through the open vents.

Sighing, Steve leaned his hip against the washer and shoved a hand back through his hair. They'd eaten a good breakfast: Brock had eaten at least three eggs and two and a half slices of toast. He hadn't exactly been talkative, but he hadn't exactly been jumpy or awkward around Steve either. He mostly seemed tired. Which was probably normal for someone who'd just been through a heat.

Steve pressed his lips together, worrying. _Had_ he done the right thing? It hadn't felt wrong, not when he made the decision or while he was actually going through with it. But...the more he thought about it, the more he felt like maybe it _was_ wrong, all other feelings be damned. Many reasonable, rational people argued that an omega in heat was incapable of giving consent. That it was at least as incapacitating as being high on certain drugs. And that the only acceptable way to have sex with an omega in heat was if consent was established prior to the onset of the heat.

Brock wasn't actually an omega, but...the nurse practitioner had said he was 'effectively' in heat, that they should treat it as though it was the real thing. Which...logically suggested that his ability to consent would likely have been the same as if he were an omega in heat.

Being in heat obviously did not automatically equal consent with any interested party who happened to wander by. And despite what some honestly really gross fictional representations might have suggested, an omega in heat _didn't_ automatically crave sex with literally any alpha—or alphas—who happened along either. It was rather well known, rather well documented, that omegas could and often did verbally and through clear physical actions refuse—or at least, attempt to refuse—the advances of alphas, despite being in full heat. Ignoring the protests of an omega in such a situation was legally an assault in nearly all jurisdictions, equal to ignoring the protests of anyone and using violent force or coercion in a sexual situation. An alpha's biological reaction to scenting the heat was a weak defence; it was an alpha's most basic instinct to _protect_ , after all, so crying 'instinct' really wouldn't get an alpha very far in the eyes of the law or the eyes of the general public if they were to attack an uninterested omega. And alphas were, legally, just as human and rational as anyone—despite, again, some truly insulting fictional representations where they were nothing more than mindless, cruel, selfish beasts with less compassion and self-control than the average grizzly bear. Or mountain lion.

And of course there was the thing where some alphas would just _smell_ repulsive to a specific omega in heat, which would of course be a contributing factor in said potential reluctance. Should Steve feel somewhat better that he had in fact smelled attractive to Brock? Did that even count for anything?

It was cases where the omega in heat didn't protest an alpha's advances where the law got fuzzy. Really, really fuzzy. Omegas who were eager and even insistent while in heat could say afterwards that they hadn't meant it. Alphas often argued they had no way of knowing how the omega would feel about it later. (It was, quite honestly, a situation that wasn't fair to anyone, and yet another sound argument for the general use of suppressants.)

It would be so easy to dismiss the whole question by saying that Brock wasn't an omega anyway—and therefore could not 'really' have been in heat—so it was an entirely moot point. But Steve had been there with him, seen first-hand just how irrational he was. As the nurse practitioner had said, he was 'effectively' in heat; it was the same.

And what if...what if Brock was already in pre-heat when Steve pushed him down by the thimbleberries? What if the only reason he felt attracted to Steve at that point was because he was _already_ in the early stages? Steve hadn't noticed any change in his scent, but then he hadn't exactly been paying that close attention. Betas never smelled like much, anyway. Unless they really needed a shower.

Steve went over the floor of both bedrooms, the hallway, and the bathroom again, making sure he hadn't missed any drops or smears of slick. He'd cleaned a few up in Brock's bedroom already—maybe that's all there were.

Sitting back on his heels, Steve sighed.

Now that he himself was more clear-headed, now that Brock wasn't filling the cabin with the overpowering, intoxicating smell of omega-in-heat, it was pretty clear that he probably could have remained firm on the subject of sex. Could have held and reassured Brock, made sure he had water, and—essentially acted like an adult. It would most likely have taken longer for the heat to pass—and, okay, so Brock had delivered a rather unfair ultimatum. But even on his best days Brock couldn't actually force Steve to leave.

Though...Steve probably couldn't force him to drink water, either. Brock, at least in-heat Brock, might just have been capable of stubbornly dehydrating himself to spite Steve. And his full heat could have lasted three days. That wasn't a reasonable amount of time for a person to go without water. Especially if that person was in heat and therefore sweating.

Was Steve just trying to justify himself and his actions? (Probably.)

If it had come right down to it, Steve could have taken Brock to an ER to be sedated and re-hydrated intravenously. Which...would have violated Brock's very strong desire to keep his intersex status a secret from as many people as possible.

Sighing again, Steve stood up and made his way to the living room. He still needed to make sure Brock didn't feel abandoned. Pulling one of the wooden chairs over from the table, Steve sat in it, facing Brock. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Brock replied, glancing briefly at Steve before returning his gaze to the fire.

“How are you feeling?” Steve asked. Maybe it was a cowardly opening, but he couldn't think of anything better. And he really did need to check on him.

“Fine,” Brock replied. Then he glanced at Steve again and sighed, rolling his eyes. “I'm not hungry, or thirsty—and I'm warm enough. I'm a bit sore, just in general, and I feel sort of like I'm recovering from a cold or flu, but for the most part I think the entire heat bullshit is over and done with.” He scratched at his chest through the dark material of his t-shirt. “Well, unless I'm gonna bleed.”

“Oh.” That would be yet another inconvenient mess. Worse than the slick, because slick didn't tend to stain. Steve's brow furrowed and he tilted his head a bit to the side. “You haven't—?”

Brock shook his head. “Not even a drop.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Figure you need an actual _functioning_ uterus for that part.” Reaching over, he rapped his knuckles on the top of the end table.

Steve ducked his head to hide a bit of a smile. “Yeah, I guess I wouldn't be too excited about that part either—if it were me.”

Brock snorted. “If it were you, I think you'd _really_ need to see a doctor.”

One side of Steve's lips turned up. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Speaking of doctors...” Brock made a face, taking a sip of his coffee. “I guess I'll have to see mine when we get back.”

Steve nodded, because that was obviously a good idea. “Yeah.”

Brock shifted a bit on the couch, turning his attention more to Steve. “Getting bored waiting for the laundry?”

Steve chuckled softly, scratching at the back of his head. “Maybe a bit.” He sighed, looking around the small space. “Guess I sort of ran out of things to do right now.” Other than worry.

“Ugh.” Brock shifted again, stretching a bit. “I suppose we could do a bit more fishing...if you wanted...” He heaved a sigh, making a face. “Sorry we didn't really get a chance to do much of that.”

“It's fine,” Steve assured him.

Brock wrinkled his nose. “Hell it is. You were all excited about this weekend of wilderness discovery, and all you got was taking care of _me_.”

Steve blushed—and then blushed more because he'd blushed. “I—didn't mind.”

Brock made a quiet disbelieving sound in his throat, rolling his head around on his shoulders. “Look, I know I was about the least cooperative, most demanding and outright _unpleasant_ omega in heat you could possibly imagine.”

Steve held up a hand. “Hey, if we're apologizing—” He blew out a breath through his lips. “I feel like I owe you one.” This probably wasn't the best way to do this— _was_ there a good way to do this?

Brock looked genuinely confused. “For what?” He snorted, rolling his eyes a bit. “For putting up with my obnoxious ass?” He drank the rest of his coffee and set the mug aside.

“Well...” Steve shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He scraped his teeth over his bottom lip. “Prevailing modern theories suggest...” He grimaced. Brock might not even know this. “...that when a person is in heat, they're not...fully capable of giving consent.”

Brock turned an incredulous look on him. “What? Are you serious?” He shook his head. “That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard.” Okay, so this was probably the first he was hearing of it. Brock made a soft, exasperated sound, looking away. “The heat is all about mating; that's the entire _point_.” He glared at Steve, making a disgusted sound and gesturing with one hand. “And it's not like you came at me all aggressive-like: the sex was _my_ idea. Entirely.” He looked away, rubbing his palm on the top of his thigh and muttering, “If one of us needs to apologize, then it's me.”

Steve hardened his jaw, shifting again in the chair. “Your ability to make decisions was compromised, which is exactly my point.”

Brock narrowed his eyes at Steve then looked away again, letting out a frustrated breath. “Look, if you regret what happened—”

“I only regret,” Steve stated firmly, “if I hurt you. In any way.”

Brock levelled his gaze at Steve. “Well, you didn't. You _didn't_ , okay?” He rubbed his hand over his mouth, looking away again. “You were more than kind. More than considerate.” He glanced back at Steve then away again. “Gentle.”

“Brock,” Steve tried, “you know that you deserve to be treated kindly, right? That you _deserve_ consideration and gentleness, especially when you're—in a situation like that.”

Brock leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. He glanced at Steve from under his dark brows. “Can we pretend—for a second—that you're not this—?” He made an encompassing gesture in Steve's direction. “—this giant ball of guilt.” He could probably smell it on Steve. Damn it; Steve needed to get better at controlling his moods. He spent too much time around betas, and they didn't notice spikes in his scent because they couldn't smell it at all. Brock's eyes flashed. “Pretend that you _don't_ believe you've done me some great, irreparable wrong.” He sighed, gaze settling somewhere around Steve's knees. “Can we just—talk about it? A bit?”

Talking about things was generally a good idea. Steve nodded. He looked down at his hands folded in his lap then back at Brock. “Okay.”

“Well...” Brock scratched at the back of his neck. “I've actually found you attractive since I met you. I think that's probably just a general side-effect of having met you, for anyone who's even marginally attracted to alphas. Or males. Or whatever.” Before Steve could protest or even comment, Brock went on, “But it was just sort of a general, 'yeah, he's pretty damn good looking' sort of thing.” He shrugged. “I just assumed it was never going to happen, _could_ never happen. But then—” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Suddenly I'm going into heat—my first heat ever. And that was just...unpleasant. And I'll freely admit I wasn't thinking all that clearly when I showed you my...” He gestured to his crotch. “...my junk.” He made a face. “But you—didn't seem to mind. At all.” He shot Steve a questioning look. “Was that just because of the heat thing? Because your brains were being scrambled by how I smelled?”

Steve shook his head. “Just because something is different—or even unexpected—doesn't mean it's bad or wrong or...” He made a face, rubbing at the back of his own neck. “...ugly. Because you're not,” he added quickly. “Nothing about you is ugly.”

Brock nodded slowly, expression considering. Then he smirked a bit. “So the guy who's into everything, really is into _everything_ , hey?”

Smiling a bit, Steve shrugged one shoulder. “I guess so.”

“So,” Brock said, “I guess the main point as I see it is that even though we would never have had sex if I'd never gone into heat—I don't _regret_ what happened. It was...easily the most enjoyable sex I have ever had in my life. Even with the whole miserable heat thing. So...” He scraped his teeth over his bottom lip and scratched at the back of his head. “I'd really appreciate if you wouldn't beat yourself up over it.” He shrugged. “Because that helps absolutely nobody.”

Steve looked at Brock where he sat on the worn forest green couch, looking calm and reasonable and smelling rather like a healthy omega (who wasn't in heat). Steve nodded. “All right.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Hey, I got one!” Steve held out the entirely intact thimbleberry, though it was far too dark for Brock to properly see it. He probably couldn't even tell it was whole and not squashed at all.

“Good for you,” Brock said, bumping his shoulder into Steve's. “Maybe you won't starve after all.”

“Hey, I caught a fish too!” Steve pointed out. He'd caught it just before they decided to pack up for the night when it was so dark they could hardly see the fish on the end of Steve's line, but Brock had still laughed at how small it was. (But how was Steve, as the person holding the pole, supposed to control the size of whatever caught the hook? If there was a trick there, Brock hadn't bothered teaching it.)

Brock shook his head. “That thing's more bones that meat—and you can't eat the bones.”

Steve picked another thimbleberry and managed not to smash that one either. He held it out to Brock. “I think I'm getting better.”

Brock took the berry and popped it into his mouth. “Must be.”

“Hey.” Steve shook his head, laughing. “Maybe I will starve if you eat all _my_ berries as well as the ones you pick.”

Brock shrugged, unconcerned. “I'm giving you additional motivation to get better—and also, didn't I just teach you earlier tonight how to properly grill a fish? Something that will come in really handy if you ever manage to catch one worth cooking?”

“Yeah.” Steve smiled. “You did.” It had been their dinner before they headed out to fish. And it had been delicious. Steve had felt a little bad letting Brock cook at all, but Brock needed the protein, and too much eggs, cheese, and ham all the time just wasn't healthy—or appetizing. “And thank you.”

Brock held out his hand with a small pile of thimbleberries in it. He pushed it a bit towards Steve, as if indicating he should take one, saying, “So you don't starve.”

Steve took one. “Your concern and consideration are truly appreciated,” he said solemnly, and ate it.

Brock looked at the berries in his hand and raised an eyebrow. “I meant for you to have them all, but...” He shoved the remaining ones into his own mouth, then brushed his palm off on his jeans.

It was probably meant as some sort of teasing slight against Steve, but...he was truly glad to see Brock eating. _So_ glad to see him getting healthy food. Even just a few berries, when he'd had a full meal of grilled fish earlier. Steve had to shake his head a bit at himself. His alpha instincts apparently needed a bit more time to re-settle back to their previous levels, because he wasn't normally _this_ concerned about someone eating well.

o0o

As Steve was just finishing up getting ready for bed, Brock knocked on the doorframe (Steve had left the door open). Turning, Steve said, “Yeah?”

“Um.” Brock looked awkwardly back towards his own room. “I was wondering...if I could sleep here. With you.”

“Sure, of course.” Stepping back, Steve gestured to his bed. “Absolutely.”

“Thanks,” Brock said as he stepped into the room. “I was just feeling a bit...unsettled, I guess, about the idea of sleeping alone.” Wrinkling his nose, he massaged the muscles in the side of his neck a bit. “Figure it's probably still a heat recovery...thing. Or something.”

“Yeah.” Steve shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The varnished wood of the floor was cool and hard under his bare feet. “I don't mind—it's, uh—” He rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck. “It's _nice_ to share a bed.”

“Well, they're not the biggest beds,” Brock commented as he sat down on the edge of Steve's, offering him a somewhat nervous smile, “but they've done okay so far.”

“Yeah, I've found them to be fine,” Steve said, switching off the light. He paused, stopping himself and blushing at bit, because, “I was just going to kiss you. On the temple.” He gestured towards the temple in question, though Brock might not quite catch the motion in the darkened bedroom. “Would that—still be okay?”

Brock shrugged. “Apparently I'm in a snuggly mood—so go ahead: knock yourself out.” Sliding onto the bed next to Brock, Steve laid one hand against the other side of Brock's face and kissed first his temple then his cheek then his jaw. Brock hummed approvingly. Then he yawned and laughed softly. “Guess I'm tired.”

“Sleep, then,” Steve told him, guiding him to lie down on the bed, nestled safe in the curve of his own body.

o0o

“Well, I guess that's the last of it,” Brock announced, squinting at the noonday sun as he hopped down from the back of his truck.

Steve nodded, gesturing to the cabin. “Ready to lock up, I guess.”

“Sure.” Brock walked over to the door. He looked back at Steve. “And then I'll drive us back to civilization.”

Steve leaned against the side of Brock's truck, folding his arms over his chest. “Oh, you will, will you?”

Brock shot him a mildly incredulous look as he ambled back to the truck. “Um, yeah? It's my truck, my keys—just 'cause I let you drive when I'm incapacitated doesn't mean you can just get all used to the idea of driving _my_ truck.”

Steve ducked his head a bit, grinning. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Just figured I should let you rest.”

Brock rolled his eyes. “With the amount of waiting on me hand and foot you've been doing all weekend, I think maybe I should let _you_ rest.”

“I'm not the one who just had his first heat,” Steve pointed out. “And besides, you drove for the whole trip here—it's only fair.”

“I'm not concerned about 'fair',” Brock said, walking around and opening the driver's door. He hopped up and slid into the seat, shooting Steve an unconcerned look. “My truck, my rules.”

Steve shook his head, but climbed into the passenger seat. “Whatever you say, boss.”

o0o

“Well, you're home,” Steve said, putting Brock's truck in park after pulling into the parking space Brock had indicated.

Brock grunted. “You sure you don't want me to drive you home? It's just a few blocks.”

“You're tired,” Steve reminded him. They'd switched drivers a little less than two thirds of the way home because Brock had been yawning and having difficulty concentrating on the road. “So you need to rest. You've got work again tomorrow morning, bright and early. And besides, I can get a cab.” Hell, he could walk; Brock was right: it wasn't that far.

Brock shook his head, blowing out a breath and turning partway towards Steve. “You can't act like this around everyone else, okay? Even if we were dating, I'm still supposed to be a _beta_.”

Steve sighed. “I know. I take keeping your secret seriously. Don't worry.” He offered Brock a bashful smile. “But can't I act like this a bit _right now_? No one's around. And you just had your first heat...”

Brock rolled his eyes. “Fine.” He held up a warning finger. “But just for right now.”

Catching him behind the neck, Steve kissed his forehead. “Understood.”

o0o

Steve did end up getting a cab, but only because he didn't want to carry all his stuff and walk while trying to use his phone. He just didn't have enough hands for that to be practical.

He texted Bucky, letting him know he was back in town, then added:

_I even caught a fish! :)_

Bucky sent back almost immediately:

_Congrats!_

Then:

_Did you eat it already?_

Then:

_Because if not, I want some._

Steve chuckled softly at Bucky's texts as the cab pulled up to his place. As he tugged some bills out of his wallet to pay the cabbie, he typed with one hand:

_Still have it, but Brock says it's no good – too small, all bones._

Steve was about a third of the way from the cab to his apartment when he got a reply:

_Yeah, well what does he know?_

Chuckling, Steve leaned against the wall to text back:

_A lot more than I do when it comes to fish._

Just outside his apartment, Steve got another text from Bucky:

_Okay, plan: get Sam to cook the fish – he's a master and can cook anything._

Steve chuckled. That wasn't a bad idea. He waited until he was inside and had set his stuff down before typing back:

_Good idea. And that's what I have you for._

Bucky texted back as Steve was securing the fish a place in his fridge:

_Exactly. Because YOU only ever have BAD ideas. ;)_

Grinning, Steve walked over and flopped down on his couch. He typed back to Bucky:

_Won't even argue._

Then:

_I'm going to head to bed. Don't forget to brush your teeth!_

Because that at least counted as a good idea. Even if it always annoyed Bucky.

As Steve was brushing his own teeth, a new text from Bucky popped up on his phone where it lay on the bathroom counter:

_And here I was thinking how I'd missed you all weekend. Maybe you should just spend the whole week out there. :P_

Just before he laid down to sleep, Steve sent to Bucky:

_Maybe I will! The air quality out there was amazing. And apparently I could use the practice fishing!_

Steve set his phone on the nightstand, flicking the screen off. Yawning, he lay down curled on his side. It was strange, after so much cuddling with Brock over the weekend, to be all alone in the big bed—even bigger than the ones he and Brock had shared at the cabin. To have no one he could reach out and touch. He shook his head at his foolishness; that wasn't something he should have let himself get used to. It had been a very obviously temporary thing. And it had only been three nights! (Maybe it felt like more because they'd spent so much time in bed during the days as well.)

Yawning again, Steve turned over onto his other side. He just needed some sleep. Everything would feel a bit better after a good night's sleep.

o0o

Steve's phone was ringing, but there was no way it was a reasonable time for that. Blinking gummy eyes, he fumbled for it in the darkness, managing to knock it off the nightstand before he could even check who was calling. He somehow managed not to break it (thank God) and the other person hadn't even hung up by the time Steve did get a good look at the screen. Brock.

Swiping the screen to answer, Steve brought the phone to his ear. “Yeah?” His voice was rough, sleepy. He tired to clear his throat, shaking his head a bit.

“Steve?” Brock's voice came from the other end, sounding anxious, worried. “Shit, sorry—did I wake you up?”

“Um.” There really was no point in lying. Steve rubbed at his forehead. “Yeah, but—don't worry about it.”

Brock let out a shaky breath. “Sorry. Look, I didn't mean to bother you, but...”

Steve's brow furrowed with worry. “What is it?”

“I—” Brock's breath shook as though he were trying not to cry. Finally he admitted, “I couldn't sleep.”

“Do you need me to come over?” Steve asked immediately.

“No, no. Uh—” Brock blew out a breath. “I just thought maybe if I talked to you for a bit...”

Steve rubbed at his forehead again, pressing harder this time. Depending on how long Brock needed to talk, it might be a lot easier if Steve just went over to his place. But if Brock didn't want him around... Maybe Brock needed some space. That was a thing, wasn't it? It was a 'beta' thing, anyway. As far as Steve knew. “Okay.”

“Yeah,” Brock said, letting out a relieved sigh. “Look, I don't wanna keep you up, since I know you have to work in the morning...”

“So do you,” Steve reminded him. Then he frowned. “Unless you're calling in sick?”

Brock let out a strained, quiet laugh. “I might—I mean, I have to see my doctor, and I'm starting to think sooner rather than later.”

Steve nodded even though Brock couldn't see him. “That's probably a good idea.”

“Fuck...” Brock breathed. “I should probably just Google this myself, but—do you think it's _normal_ for me to still feel this...clingy?”

Steve leaned back against his pillows. “I'm sorry I'm not a real expert, but...if I recall correctly from what they taught us in school...heat recovery is usually supposed to last one to two days, and be a sort of gradual process of the body readjusting to its normal level of hormones.”

“But it's already been that!” Brock replied, a sharp edge of worry in his voice. “Hasn't it?”

Steve frowned. It was a little too late at night to do math. (And Bucky'd always been better than him anyway.) “I think it probably depends on when exactly your heat ended.” Time had gotten a bit fuzzy for a while there. “And Brock?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, when I left you at your place,” Steve explained, “you still smelled like an omega—so maybe your body hasn't quite gotten 'back to normal'.”

“Shit,” Brock said. “ _Fuck_. And you're right—I can still smell it on myself. How the hell am I—? I am definitely calling in sick tomorrow; I can't go to work smelling like an omega!”

“Brock...” Steve said, as soothingly as he could, because Brock sounded like he was teetering on the very edge of a panic attack, “breathe, okay? It'll be all right.” Brock's breathing was still rough, but it was clear he was _trying_. “That's a good idea—your idea, calling in sick tomorrow. That's a very good idea. Get yourself checked out; see what the doctor says.”

Brock let out a shaky, relieved breath. “Yeah.”

“Are you sure you don't want me to come over?” Steve checked.

“Shit, I don't know.” Brock sounded very small and scared. “Talking to you helps—it's really helping. But I dunno if I can sleep.”

“I'll come over,” Steve said, already sitting up, and looking around for his duffel. “I'll throw a few things back in my bag, and I can be there in about ten.”

“Fuck, Steve,” Brock said, voice rough. “I'm— You know you don't have to.”

“I know I don't have to,” Steve assured him as he found his discarded jeans and started to pull them on over his boxer-briefs. “But I'm not going to let you suffer when I could sleep just as well there as here.”

Brock was quiet on the other end of the line for a moment, then he finally said, “Thank you.”

“Just make sure you let me in when I get there,” Steve said, with a slightly forced chuckle.

“Yeah, don't worry,” Brock shot back, and his eye-roll was almost audible. “I'll be just be waiting here like a whiny, needy omega who literally can't function without his alpha.”

Steve tossed his toothbrush and toothpaste into his duffel and zipped it closed. He still had to put his shoes on, but he probably would do that better once he was off the phone and could freely use both hands, so he told Brock, “I'm on my way. See you when I get there.”

o0o

Steve had never been to the front door of Brock's building before, let alone inside the building, but the intercom buzzer listed a 'Rumlow', so he didn't need to call Brock and ask which number to punch in. He still did send him a text, though, letting him know he was there, right before actually punching in the number. The door buzzed and clicked, so Steve swung it open and walked into the lobby. Just as he was wondering where to go next for #359—logically, it should be on the third floor, but these things weren't always logical—he got a text from Brock:

_Third floor._

As he pressed the elevator call button, he texted back:

_Thanks._

The elevator creaked and rumbled and at least three layers of tacky linoleum were worn right through to the metal floor in the middle and curled dismally at the edges. But it still got Steve where he was going. Which happened to be a floor whose hallways smelled strongly of stale cigarette smoke and cheap air freshener. And apparently the lobby was the only place in the building with carpet from this decade, which might explain the accumulated layers of stench—but couldn't carpets be cleaned periodically?

Steve had lived in worse places, sure; but every detail of Brock's building felt like the manager just didn't care. There was even a discarded candy wrapper of some kind lying at the side of the hallway on the way to Brock's room. That one might not be the manager's fault if some careless tenant had dropped it after the manager's daily cleaning rounds. But the air quality in the hallway was horrible—rather than attempting to mask it with perfumes, they needed to install proper ventilation. It was a serious heath risk.

Steve rapped on Brock's door and it immediately swung open. (He must have been waiting right on the other side.) He offered Steve a vaguely nervous smile, ushering him inside.

“I guess a lot of your neighbours are smokers,” Steve observed, gesturing back over this shoulder as he stepped inside and toed off his shoes.

Wrinkling his nose, Brock waved a hand. “I think it just seems worse since we were out in the country with real air.”

“It doesn't usually smell that bad?” Steve asked, brow furrowing with concern.

Brock rolled his eyes. “Well, I get used to it.” He shrugged, motioning or Steve to follow him. “But we just both got used to clean air for four days—anyway, um, this is my kitchen.” He gestured vaguely, encompassing the cramped space. “Figured you might want coffee or something in the morning, so there it is.” He indicated the coffee maker. “Everything's pretty obvious, I guess...” He rubbed his fingers through the hair at the back of his head—it was endearingly rumpled, and he wore plaid pyjama bottoms and a soft white t-shirt. Steve suppressed the urge to pull him into an embrace. That could come later, if Brock wanted.

“Anyway,” Brock said, leading Steve down a narrow hallway, “bathroom's here. Uh, if you didn't bring a towel, you can just use one of mine.” Steve nodded, and Brock pushed open another door. “And this is the bedroom. A few mostly black, grey, and silver band and car posters adorned the walls and dull, off-white curtains covered the single window. Most of the floorspace was taken up by a queen-size mattress set on a box-spring with no frame—which was good, actually; it was safer that way.

And, okay, Steve's protective instincts hadn't exactly calmed down yet. “So,” he said, setting his duffel down just inside the bedroom door. “Ready to try sleeping again?”

Brock grimaced, but then nodded. “Sure. I mean, that's why you're here, so better not waste what time we have.” His movements were tense, jerky, so Steve laid a quieting hand on his lower back. The change was immediate: Brock closed his eyes and let out a breath, his whole body relaxing visibly. “Wow,” he said, blinking and shaking his head. Then he shot Steve a sideways glance. “What the hell is that?”

Steve rolled his shoulders in a slow shrug, taking a step closer to Brock so he could stroke the side of his face. “If it works...I'm not too concerned as to 'why' right now.”

Brock's eyelids fluttered. “Fuck...” he whispered then stumbled a bit, letting out a helpless whine as his head came to rest against Steve's chest. His voice slurred a bit as he said, “This is so weird.”

“Worry about 'weird' in the morning too, okay?” Steve suggested, steering Brock towards the bed before he could fall asleep on his feet. Maybe it was weird, like Brock said. But what they both needed most urgently was a few hours of decent sleep, so everything else could wait. Drawing Brock down on the bed with him, Steve pulled the covers over them both and gave Brock the lightest of kisses on his forehead. “Sleep now.”

Brock yawned, shifting closer. He was asleep in minutes, and Steve soon after.

o0o

When Steve's alarm went off in the morning, he switched it off as quickly as he could—but he had to dig his phone out of the pocket of the jeans he was still wearing, so by the time he finally had the damn thing quiet, Brock was making an unhappy face and grumpy noises. His eyes were still closed, but he clearly was no longer fully asleep.

“Sorry,” Steve said softly, stroking Brock's fluffy hair out of his face. Brock made another grumpy noise, snuggling closer to Steve. Steve winced, feeling like such a jerk, but... “I do need to get up.”

Brock made a distinctly negative sound, eyes slitting open to fix Steve with a glare. “ _Warm_ ,” he said, wrapping himself around Steve with surprising strength for someone who was yet to fully wake—though, Steve had never really had a partially awake person try to hold him down before, so what did he know?

Steve's eyes narrowed a bit as he looked around on the walls. “You have a thermostat or something? I could turn it up a notch for you.”

Groaning, Brock slid off of Steve onto his belly then pushed up on his arms, blinking as he looked over at Steve. “What?”

“If you're cold,” Steve explained, “I was saying maybe we should turn the heat up.”

Brock's features twisted. “'M not cold.” He fell back down on his belly with a sort of 'oof' sound. “I just don't wanna get out of bed.”

“Do you need to call work?” Steve checked.

“Nope,” Brock replied. “Sent an email last night after I got off the phone with you.”

“All right,” Steve said, pushing himself up to sit against the headboard. “What about your doctor? You needed to make an appointment.”

Brock grunted, rubbing at the corner of one eye. “Sent an email for that too, but I guess I need a reply so I know when to come in...” He made a face. Turning onto his side, he met Steve's eyes. “I still smell like an omega today?”

“Yeah,” Steve replied. He scratched awkwardly at the back of his neck. “Um, sorry.”

Brock snorted, nudging Steve's ankle under the blankets. “'S not _your_ fault—and besides...” He rolled onto his back, yawning and scratching at his chest. “It's better that I know.”

Steve nodded, because that made sense. “I need to take a shower before I head to work.” He slid out of the bed and stretched a bit.

Brock laughed, sounding surprised. “Did you really sleep in your jeans?”

Steve shrugged, stretching a bit more. “Wouldn't be the first time.”

Brock made a face. “Guess I didn't give you much choice, did I?”

“Hey, don't worry about it,” Steve insisted. “Don't worry about any of it.”

Brock wrinkled his nose, the corners of his lips twisting downwards. “I'm not used to needing help.”

“Everybody needs help,” Steve told him as he retrieved his duffel from where he'd left it just inside the bedroom door.

Brock picked at a loose thread on the blanket. “Yeah, well, before this weekend I hadn't felt like I _needed_ help since I was about sixteen. Maybe fifteen.” He shook his head. “I dunno.”

Steve offered him a soft half-smile. “I need help most days—sometimes more than once a day.” He shrugged his shoulders, smile turning wry. “Sometimes I even get it.”

o0o

When Steve came back out of the bathroom—teeth and hair brushed, dressed for work—Brock had a growing platter of pancakes ready. And coffee bubbling happily into the carafe. Looking around the small kitchen and taking in the sight of Brock standing at the stove with a plastic spatula in one hand, Steve was hit with a pang of—something. Did he _want_ this? Or something very like this? Or was it just that this was essentially the picture of 'what you should want' that was imprinted in every alpha's mind from the time they were old enough to walk? Steve gave his head a little shake. “You didn't have to do all this.”

Brock shrugged one shoulder, turning his attention back to the pancake in the skillet. “Couldn't get back to sleep, so I figured might as well.” He flipped the pancake. “And, you know, payback for waking you up in the middle of the night and making you come all the way over here.”

Steve sighed. Would there be a point in telling Brock, again, not to worry about that? He found two plates in the cupboard and put them on the table. “Do you have syrup?”

“In the fridge,” Brock replied, pointing with the spatula. “Should be butter around here too... Ah.” He pulled a small ceramic bowl from behind the corner of the toaster oven. “Doesn't even have too many crumbs in it.”

Steve chuckled. “Well, that's good; I tend to prefer my pancakes with less rather than more toast crumbs.”

Brock shrugged, handing him the butter. “I think some of those are from a bran muffin.”

Steve couldn't help laughing as he set the butter on the table and then retrieved the syrup from the fridge. “In my experience, bran muffin crumbs to go better with pancakes than toast crumbs do.”

Brock snorted, clearly amused. “Anyway, my doctor's appointment is at three today.” He looked over as Steve set forks and knives on the table. “I'll let you know what's up—since I know you worry.”

“Thanks,” Steve said, moving to pour himself a cup of coffee. “I appreciate that.”

o0o

When Steve got off work at five, he had several texts from Brock, starting at about four-thirty:

_We need to talk._

_I was just going to text you, but..._

_I'm not dying, but we need to talk._

_When do you get off work? 5?_

_Fuck. You'd better not be ignoring me._

Rather than replying to the texts, Steve just called him.

“Steve?” Brock sounded some mix of jumpy and relieved.

“Yeah,” Steve confirmed. “I just got off work and read your texts.”

Brock was quiet for a moment, just a bit of rough breathing, then he said, “Can—can you come over? I can't do this over the phone.”

“All right,” Steve said, now even more worried but trying to not let it show in his voice. “I'll catch a cab.” He was already walking in that direction. “I should be there in about five to seven minutes, no longer than ten.”

Maybe it was silly to be so exact, but it seemed to help Brock who let out a relieved breath. “Okay, I'll—” An audible swallow. “I'll see you then.”

o0o

In the cab, Steve got a text from Bucky:

_I thought you got in last night._

Steve sent back:

_I did._

Bucky replied a moment later:

_Right. Someone's been sleeping in your bed, Goldilocks, but no one's been eating your porridge._

Steve clenched his jaw. He typed back, quick and precise:

_If you keep climbing up the side of my building and breaking into my apartment, you are going to get arrested._

The very last thing he needed was Bucky calling him from lock up asking for bail. For something so _stupid_. He'd have given Bucky a copy of his apartment key long ago, but it wouldn't do much good without the front door buzzer thing—and the building manager didn't just hand those out to non-residents. (For obvious reasons.)

Bucky sent back:

_:P_

Then:

_Found your fish! He's so cute!_

Then:

_But seriously, you didn't even have a coffee?_

Then:

_This isn't like you, Steve._

Usually, Bucky's Sherlock Holmes antics were amusing. Just not today when Steve really didn't have time to explain any of this. But if Bucky hadn't checked his bathroom yet and noticed the absence of toothbrush and toothpaste, then—maybe Steve should be thankful for that at least. He rubbed at his forehead, glancing up in time to see the cab approaching Brock's building. He quickly typed a text to Bucky:

_Have to take care of some things. I'll talk to you later._


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a warning that the 'discussion of abortion' in this chapter may offend you regardless of your views on abortion. It is a complicated issue, especially with the specific extenuating circumstances here, and I have allowed the characters to struggle with their thoughts and feelings about it in what I hope is a real and honest way. As always in my writing, I am far more interested in asking questions than suggesting that I somehow know the 'answer' to any of them.

Brock greeted Steve at the door with a pained look, stepping back and swinging his arm to indicate Steve should come in. Stepping inside, Steve closed the door behind him and took off his shoes while Brock paced around the kitchen and living room. Steve's mind was whirling, but had yet to come up with a reasonable explanation for why Brock would be so upset. “Brock?” he tried, padding over on sock feet and touching Brock's elbow. Brock flinched away from him and Steve took an automatic step back, holding up his hands. “Sorry.”

Brock shook his head, rubbing his hand over his mouth. “No, I—I know you're trying to help.”

And yeah, that was exactly what he'd been trying to do—just the previous night, even a light touch from Steve had helped calm and soothe Brock. “Why don't we...?” Steve gestured towards the couch and easy chair arranged around the coffee table. “Why don't we have a seat?”

Brock nodded. “Yeah.” He shoved his fingers into the hair on the back of his head, pulling a bit. “Yeah, that's a good idea.” But when Steve took a seat in the chair, Brock remained standing, pacing. He shot Steve a confused and apologetic look. “I have no idea where to even—” He shook his head.

Steve cleared his throat. “I assume you saw your doctor.”

Brock nodded, leaning his head back and looking up at the ceiling. “Yeah.”

“You...” Steve shifted his his seat. “You said you're not dying.”

Brock let out a rough, broken laugh. “No.” He turned his head suddenly, fixing Steve with an intent look. “Wouldn't you _smell_ it on me if I was sick?”

Steve nodded slowly. “Normally, yes.” Brock smelled worried, scared, like a mess of confusion and nerves. But he still smelled really, really healthy. “But an alpha's nose is still fallible.”

Closing his eyes, Brock muttered something that sounded like 'obviously'. Unsure how to respond, Steve just waited, hoping Brock would eventually say whatever he needed to say. Brock tuned to Steve again, scraping his teeth over his bottom lip. “You remember when I said I wasn't bleeding?”

Steve nodded. “Have you—?”

Brock shook his head. “No, and...” He looked down at his toes, rocking a bit from the balls of his feet to his heels and back. “Well, I'm probably not going to.” But that was good—wasn't it? Brock had expressed relief that he didn't have to deal with the mess and inconvenience of it. But then Brock added “...because I'm pregnant.”

Steve just stared, dumbstruck for a moment, and then all he did say was, “Oh.” It came out quiet, more breath than actual voice.

Brock shoved both hands into his hair, pulling at it. “This wasn't supposed to be _possible_. They told me it would _never_ happen.”

“I'm sorry.” It might be the wrong thing to say, but it was the only thing that came to mind.

Brock's features twisted unhappily. “The doctor said I smell like an omega because I'm pregnant, so I'm going to continue smelling like one the entire time I'm pregnant—and she also said—” He shook his head, grimacing. “Based on my...unique biology, she didn't give the pregnancy very good odds. It might be...” He pressed his lips together. “...a...'mistake'...that my body decides to 'correct' at some point.”

Sickness twisted in Steve's gut. “I'm sorry.” That time, it must be the right thing to say. Everything about this sucked for Brock.

“But for now,” Brock continued, voice stronger as he resumed pacing, “the pregnancy is perfectly healthy: normal. Everything—normal.” He made a face. “It's why I'm still so clingy: my omega nature looking for an alpha to protect and provide.” Making a face, he gestured to Steve. “You, I guess, being the obvious choice.”

Steve nodded. It all made sense, and now that he knew what to look for, he could even smell the pregnancy on Brock—faint and sweet and comforting. His alpha nature flared, hot and angry, demanding that he protect Brock. It was _essential_ that he protect his pregnant mate. He had to close his eyes for a moment. He made his voice carefully calm and level. “You said she didn't give very good odds.”

Brock turned to Steve, eyes pleading. “There are hormone treatments she can offer me...to help keep my body from rejecting the pregnancy. But...she also offered to...” He made a face, looking away. “...'speed things along' if I'd rather just...not...be pregnant.” The sickness swirling in Steve's gut chilled, but he made himself not outwardly react. Brock shook his head. “She said she understood this was 'unplanned' and that it would 'disrupt' my life. She also—” He rubbed a hand over his face. “She also said it was likely this was the only chance I'd ever get—if I did want a baby. To have a baby.” Looking down at his toes, he made a face. “She told me to think it over. And...” He glanced over at Steve. “She recommended I talk to you—because—” He waved a hand. “If—I mean, if I had a kid...well, it'd be yours too. I guess.”

“I'm sorry,” Steve said again, because he really was. This wasn't fair at _all_ to Brock. To be told, first, that he could never get pregnant, and then to be told that he was pregnant—surprise!—but that he was unlikely to stay that way without medical intervention. To tell a man who'd been living as a beta all his life that he had to choose... _this_. Steve shook his head. “None of that is fair to you.” Brock didn't have a good choice or an easy choice.

“I don't know what to do,” Brock said, voice breaking a bit. He sat down on the couch, staring at the far wall. “I don't know what to do.”

“I'm sorry,” Steve said again.

“What do _you_ think I should do?” Brock said, turning helpless eyes on Steve.

“I...” Rubbing one palm on his pantleg, Steve shook his head. He didn't know anything about 'should'. Not for this. “I can't tell you that, Brock.”

Brock rolled his eyes, turning his head away with jerky movements. “Oh, fuck you. I ask for your help, and—and what?” He shot a glare in Steve's direction.

“I want to help you,” Steve said, because he did. “But I can't tell you what you 'should' do, because I don't know!” Some would argue, of course, that the 'best' choice was to let nature take its course—no interventions of any kind and 'let fate decide'. To Steve, that sounded like the worst possible option; Brock would be left wondering, worrying, for however long the pregnancy lasted—and in the end, he might have spent several months in that limbo, smelling like an omega, for _nothing_. If it was up to Steve, that was the one option that wouldn't even be considered. Steve shook his head. “And even if I thought I did know, this is _you_ , not me.” He shook his head. “I can't tell you what to do.”

Brock hung his head. After a moment, he sighed and said, “What do you _want_ me to do, then?”

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. Maybe he should tell Brock what he wanted—would that be helpful? Or would it just make things worse? Finally, he let his hands fall loosely to his lap. “I want...” He shook his head. “You don't have to do what I want, you know.”

“I _know_ ,” Brock grumbled, rolling his eyes. “I just—I just want to know what you think.”

“I think this sucks,” Steve replied. “I think it's completely unfair to you and I wish there was something I could do to fix it. To make things easy for you.”

Brock looked at him, blinking damp eyelashes. He shrugged his broad shoulders. He sucked in a breath and let it out, shaky. “I wish you could too.” He shifted a bit, rubbing his hands down on either side of his nose. “But what do you _want_ me to do?”

Shifting uncomfortably, Steve grimaced. “Would it help in any way if I told you?”

“Yes!” Brock heaved a frustrated sigh. He glanced sideways at Steve. “At least, I think it would. Because...” He scraped his teeth over his bottom lip. “Because there's no possible thing here that _I_ want, so if there's something you want, at least maybe I can make one of us happy.” He shook his head, rubbing his fingers through the hair on the back of his head and looking away. “Or, unhappy, I guess.” He pressed his lips together for a moment. “But I feel like I need more information right now...before I can make any kind of decision.”

Steve sat forward in the chair, brow furrowing. “Can I ask a few questions first? Because—I guess I feel like I need more information too.”

Brock nodded, letting out a shaky breath. “Sure. Why not.”

Steve swallowed. “The hormonal treatment you're being offered—to increase the chances of a successful pregnancy... Are there side-effects?”

Brock made a face, pulling at the hair on the back of his neck. “Just...general 'you'll feel more like a stereotypical omega' shit: mood swings, desperate need for reassurance...that kinda garbage.” He wrinkled his nose. “It's an injection I'd need to go in for once a week.”

Well, that sounded generally...unpleasant. And inconvenient. Steve sighed. “And...the other option? If—if you didn't want a baby.”

Brock pulled an even more unhappy face. “Oh, that one's great fun: I get to spend most of a day sick as _hell_.” He rubbed a hand over his mouth, and his voice was more brittle when he continued, “Apparently it's easier the earlier I take it, so the longer I spend deciding, the worse that'll be in the end. But...” He shook his head. He looked at Steve. “Why the hell would I _want_ to be sick? Cramping, bleeding, cold sweats...” Twisting his lips, he gestured with one hand. “...all that.”

Steve drew a careful breath in through his nose. “What—?” He cleared his throat. “What are the chances of success with the hormone treatment?”

“Oh.” Brock laughed, quiet and humourless. “She gave me pretty good odds if I never miss a dose: at least eighty to ninety percent.” He grimaced. “But that's if I start early enough—the longer I wait on that, the less likely it is to work.”

Steve sighed, shifting in his seat and shoving a hand back through his hair. It would be kinder to give Brock time to _think_ , but he clearly wasn't being given that. At all. Steve sighed again. “If you really want to know what I want...”

Brock looked at him, meeting his eyes. He swallowed. “I do.”

“I want you to have the baby,” Steve said. The words hung in the air, impossible to take back. He swallowed. “I realize that's—unfair to you.”

Brock shook his head, shoving both hands back through his hair. “None of this is fair to me; you said that yourself.”

Steve nodded. He still couldn't help feeling like the stereotypical selfish, domineering alpha. He swallowed. “I want a child.” He shook his head. “I guess that's the alpha in me.” He looked down at his lap. “And I guess...” He shook his head again. “I guess nine months of general moodiness sounds preferable to one day of you feeling like you're going to die.” He met Brock's eyes. “I can't decide for you.” Brock was the one who had to live through this either way. “But I'll help you and support you in any way I can, regardless.”

Brock closed his eyes, leaning back and taking shaky breaths. “I'd have to quit my damn job—it's too dangerous. Too much chance of physical injury.” Steve nodded. That made sense. Brock shot Steve a glare. “Do you realize how much this would fuck up my _entire_ life?”

Steve sighed. His limbs felt heavy and dull and his gut still swirled cold. “That's why I can't decide for you.”

Brock made a quiet, annoyed sound, jerking his head to look away from Steve. “But...she also warned that even a spontaneous miscarriage could be...psychologically devastating.” He made a face. “Apparently that's a fun perk of my 'unique biology': _increased_ risk of depression triggered by fluctuating hormones.”

Steve sat a little straighter, brow furrowing. That wasn't good. No, not good at all. Brock wasn't exactly an omega, but... Omegas didn't tend to handle depression well. Neither did alphas, of course, and both were at increased risk over the baseline betas. It was one of the reasons they were encouraged so strongly to pair off, because a stable bond could greatly benefit both. But pregnancy-related depression could be dangerous even in beta women. The indelicate bottom line was that it could be fatal. Steve tried to keep his shaky breath quiet, but Brock's gaze snapped to him anyway. Steve clenched his jaw. “What can I do to help?”

Laughing, weak and tired and brittle, Brock looked away again. “I don't suppose you have some sort of magic wand that can just put everything back the way it was before.”

Steve looked down at his hands. His voice broke a bit when he said, “I wish I did.” Because, honestly, this sucked. This wasn't how it was _supposed_ to be when someone learned they were going to have a child. It was supposed to be a happy time—pride and elation and anticipation.

Brock was quiet for a little bit and then he said, “Steve?”

Steve looked up. “Yeah?”

“I think—” Brock looked away. “I think I need...a day? To think about it.”

“Yeah.” Steve nodded. Brock probably wanted some space, too, without Steve hovering. Steve swallowed. “You can call me or text me if you need anything.”

Brock nodded, not looking at Steve. “Yeah.” His eyes cut over to Steve before snapping away again. “Thanks.”

“Any time,” Steve promised.

Because, as much as he honestly couldn't do much at all to help, this was his responsibility. If one person impregnated another, even if they honestly didn't _mean_ to, it was still their responsibility.

o0o

When Steve opened the door of his apartment, Bucky was sprawled on his couch. Dropping his duffel just inside the door, Steve pulled off his shoes.

“Were you at Brock's?” Bucky asked. Steve didn't respond at first, because he wasn't sure how and besides it wasn't really any of Bucky's business. He just padded into the kitchen and got himself a glass of water. “Because, really,” Bucky went on, “his place is crap—if you guys are going to fuck, you should totally do it here.” Steve shot Bucky a sort of incredulous glare over the top of his water glass. Bucky laughed. “Your toothbrush and toothpaste were missing, and you came home from work with an overnight bag—it doesn't _actually_ take Sherlock Holmes.”

Steve walked over and sat on the other end of the couch. If Bucky wasn't being a total ass, Steve might actually have really appreciated talking to him. Not that he could actually _say_ much; until Brock told him otherwise, Steve was protecting his secret. Taking a swallow of his water, Steve said, “You're a real genius detective, Bucky. You learn anything else riveting?”

Bucky offered him a blithe smile. “So you're not even going to deny it?” He nudged Steve's knee with his foot. “You're fucking Brock Rumlow.”

Sighing, Steve set his water glass on the coffee table. “We had sex, yes.” Might as well be honest. Well, as honest as he could be. “Not sure if it will happen again.”

Bucky frowned. “Did you give him a blowjob? Did he at least give you a handy in return?”

Steve levelled a narrow-eyed stare at him. Finally he said, “You were right the first time, Bucky: we fucked.”

“So you're finally graduating for foreplay?” Bucky grinned. “You need to tell me these things so I can mock you for taking so long to finally get around to it!”

Steve rolled his eyes, taking a swallow of water and replacing his glass on the table. “You already know I had sex with Peggy.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, snickering. “If you call that 'sex'.”

“I do,” Steve said firmly, “and you know I do.” Mostly because it _was_ sex. Bucky wasn't usually this...flippant about the whole thing. Steve sighed. “And I don't really need _you_ to mock me when Brock already did.”

“Oh, my God.” Bucky's eyes widened in exaggerated scandalization. “Was he a total dick? He was, wasn't he?” Sitting up and turning partway to face Steve, Bucky shoved one hand back through his dark curls and swallowed, expression and voice becoming several degrees more serious. “You know, Steve; you don't have to put up with that shit. You deserve better.” When Steve didn't immediately respond, Bucky touched his arm. “Is that why you're not sure if it'll happen again?” He swallowed again. “Because if you're not enjoying yourself...”

Taking another swallow of water, Steve set his glass down and shook his head. “I enjoyed it.”

“Okay, well...” Bucky laughed, a little nervously, looking away. “He must have enjoyed it too if he was getting you out of bed for middle-of-the-night booty calls.”

Steve looked sideways at him. “He said he enjoyed it, yes.” Best sex of his entire life, apparently. Which might be a really sad commentary on Brock's life so far.

“So it's not the sex, then,” Bucky said, leaning his head on the back of the couch and turning it to face Steve. “You're just not feeling a 'connection'; you're not compatible when it comes to an actual relationship. Which, I'm just gonna point out, I could have told you if you'd asked me.”

One side of Steve's mouth twitched in something partway to being a smile. Picking up the glass again, he turned it in his hands. “Neither of us planned it.”

“Right, right,” Bucky said, voice clearly patronizing. “It just 'happened'. I get it.” He smiled but there was something sharp in his eyes. “You were horny. He was horny. Only the two of you in a secluded cabin in the wilderness.”

Steve took another swallow of water, a sort of wry, bitter smile tugging at his features. Aside from missing the obviously unguessable 'heat' thing, Bucky'd essentially hit on the exact scenario. Steve set his glass down. “Pretty much.”

“Well, you don't have to feel _guilty_ about that,” Bucky said, rolling his head where it rested on the back of the couch so he was looking up at the ceiling.

“I know,” Steve said. Though of course he just felt even more guilty now that he knew he'd managed to get Brock pregnant. And completely ruin his entire life.

“Let me take you out for a drink,” Bucky said, sitting up and slapping himself on the knee. He shook his hair off his forehead. “Come on, as your best friend—or at least your oldest friend—it's my responsibility to make sure you get drunk to distract you from bad romantic decisions you're clearly regretting.” He poked Steve in the arm. “You can tell me what a selfish jerk he was, and I can reassure you— _repeatedly_ and _honestly_ —that you deserve better.”

Steve looked at him, considering. It felt wrong, somehow, to go out and get drunk while Brock was suffering alone. And what if Brock needed him and he was too drunk to actually provide the help and support he'd offered? But... Brock had said he'd take a day to think it over. He probably needed the space, and Steve ineffectually brooding around his own apartment for twenty-four hours wouldn't help anyone. And besides, Bucky'd been looking forward to the cabin weekend and had missed out. He deserved to have some fun too. “We can play darts,” Steve said finally. “And pool.” Because those were two things at which Bucky almost invariably beat him. Two things at which Bucky beat almost everyone—everyone but Clint, mostly because no one ever beat Clint at darts. (The guy was almost creepily good.)

A bright smile spread across Bucky's face and he slapped Steve on the knee. “Now you're talking!”

o0o

“Another beer?” Bucky asked, motioning to Steve's mug.

Steve considered the centimetre of pale liquid in the bottom of his mug. He glanced up at Bucky. “How many have I had, again?”

Bucky shrugged, an impish smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Not enough.”

Sighing, Steve pushed the mug away over the uneven wood of the tabletop and levelled an unimpressed look at Bucky. “Enough that you soundly beat me at darts, three times. And at pool, twice.”

Bucky shrugged, taking a sip from his own beer. “Don't have to be drunk to loose at darts, Steve.” He jerked his head in the direction of the dart board. “Wanna go again?”

Steve's mouth twitched unhappily. “I dunno. Getting my ass kicked repeatedly isn't as fun as I thought it would be.”

Bucky sniggered. “'S fun for _me_.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “I know.” He shot Bucky a bashful smile. “That was the idea.”

Bucky nudged his foot under the table. “You're such a good friend, Stevie.” Sudden and completely unbidden, tears sprung to Steve's eyes. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe a bit of it was exhaustion, and maybe most of it was his desperate, confused, and frustrated alpha instinct to protect. That seemed like a likely combination. But he was sucking in breaths in an attempt to avoid breaking down in the middle of the bar. “Hey,” Bucky said, suddenly worried as he reached across the table to catch Steve's hand and give it a squeeze. “Stevie, it's gonna be okay.”

Steve shook his head miserably, because it was _not_ going to be okay. There was no way this was going to be okay. “I never meant to hurt anybody,” Steve whispered finally.

“I know that,” Bucky said, voice sure and firm as he tightened his grip on Steve's hand. “You're a good guy, Steve.”

Steve glanced around, but his eyes were too clouded to see if he was drawing anyone's attention, if he was making a scene. Swallowing, he asked, voice pleading, “Can we go?”

“Yeah, of course,” Bucky said. He dug his wallet out of his pocket and flagged down a server, paid off their tab plus a generous tip, and dragged Steve out the door into the cool night air. Holding Steve by the elbow, he asked, “Want me to hail a cab?”

Steve didn't want to see anyone else, not even an anonymous cabbie, so he shook his head. “Can—can we walk?”

“Sure,” Bucky said, falling into an easy step beside him. “It's only a few blocks.”

They walked in silence for most of a block, Bucky casting him worried glances as Steve helplessly radiated misery. Finally Bucky said, “Whatever Brock did, or said—I know you're a good guy, Steve. I know you better, because I've known you longer, okay?” Steve shook his head, and Bucky gave his arm a little shake in response. “You're a _great_ guy, Steve.” He sighed, pausing to push the button at a cross walk. “The way it looks to me, _he_ hurt _you_.”

Steve sucked in a breath and shook his head again. “He didn't mean to.”

“Yeah, well,” Bucky said, tugging on Steve's arm to get him to cross—Steve hadn't been paying any attention to the lights, “most people don't 'mean to', but that's how it happens.” He shot Steve a considering look out of the corner of his eye. “You guys are having a messy fuck-buddy breakup. It's confusing, and it hurts. I get that.”

Steve narrowed his eyes. “I—” He looked over at Bucky, confused. “Are we?”

Bucky chuckled. “See what I mean? Messy. That's what it's like.” He tightened his grip on Steve's elbow, moving a bit closer to him as he guided them around a trash can. “But things will settle down, and it'll all be fine in a few days. Trust me.”

Steve chewed on the inside of his cheek. “You've—done this? This, uh...'fuck-buddy break up'?” If he had, Steve hadn't heard about it.

Bucky laughed. “I never told you about me and Sharon, did I?”

Steve gaped at him. “Peggy's sister?”

“Only 'Sharon' we know,” Bucky confirmed, bumping a bit into Steve's slower-moving bulk as he dodged around a tree. “People make bad decisions sometimes.” He shook his bangs off his forehead, offering Steve a sage expression. “Doesn't mean they can't still be friends.”

Steve nodded, but this situation was a lot more complicated than Bucky knew. More complicated than Steve was allowed to say. Maybe, more than he'd _ever_ be allowed to say. He stumbled a bit, but Bucky steadied him, keeping him on his feet. Steve fought to breathe. It really wasn't fair, but... If Brock chose to end the pregnancy, chose to pretend like nothing had ever happened...this was a secret Steve would carry to his _grave_. He couldn't ever tell Bucky or Sam or Nat. Steve was being so damn selfish he wanted to punch himself. Hard.

“Hey,” Bucky caught him by the sides of his face, looking up searchingly into his eyes. “Do you need to sit down?”

Steve stared blankly back at him, uncomprehending. “I'm sorry,” he said finally, because it was true. It was _always_ true; he was always sorry for something.

“It's okay,” Bucky assured him, turning to lead him down the sidewalk once again. “You don't need to apologize.”

“But...” Steve tried to keep his feet moving without tripping again and tried to make his mind and mouth work too. It shouldn't be this hard—but then, that's what he got for drinking so much. Finally he said, “You were angry.”

“I'm not angry,” Bucky assured him gently. “I'm just—” He shook his hair off his forehead. “I'm worried about you.”

“I worry about you,” Steve countered, a bit petulantly, as Bucky made him stand against the wall and fished Steve's apartment key out of his pocket. (Somehow, they were in the building already. Somehow, Steve hadn't registered walking through the front door.)

“Yeah, I know,” Bucky said, patting his upper arm gently as he opened the door. “Big, strong alpha has to take care of everyone.”

“But I _do_ ,” Steve insisted as he followed Bucky inside. “'S...my job.”

Turning to face him, Bucky offered him a flickering smile. “Anyone ever tell you you take that a bit more seriously than most alphas?” Then he glanced down at Steve's feet and added, “Take your shoes off.”

Right. Steve moved to obey, slow and careful so he wouldn't fall over.

“Want me to make coffee?” Bucky asked, biting his lip a bit.

Steve shook his head and immediately regretted it, pressing the heel of his hand to his brow in an attempt to slow the spinning. “Need t' sleep.”

“All right,” Bucky said, catching him by the elbow again. “Good idea. But bathroom first.” Steve nodded. “You're a mess,” Bucky commented as he steered him down the hallway. “And I'll admit that part of that is my fault for getting you drunk.”

Steve made a negative sort of grunt. “Wanted to.”

“Right.” Bucky chuckled a bit, pausing just outside the bathroom door. “I totally didn't twist your arm or anything.” He shook his head, still smiling. “Anyway, go on.” He gave Steve a nudge, so Steve obeyed, stepping into the bathroom and closing the door behind him.

o0o

When Steve got out of the bathroom, Bucky was sprawled on his bed—he sat up when Steve walked into the room, offering Steve a soft expression. “Did you want me to stay?” He dropped his gaze, shoulders just barely twitching in a shrug. “Thought maybe you wouldn't want to be alone.”

And, _oh_ , Steve _didn't_ want to be alone. He and Bucky didn't share a bed often, but it was always _so_ nice to have him there. Always had been. Even if he didn't reach out and touch, just knowing there was someone close enough that he _could_. He stood there staring, probably looking really stupid. (In his defence, he was drunk.) He finally took a step forward, swallowing, then carefully—because he might have splashed some water on his face, but he was still wobbly and fuzzy—slid onto the bed next to Bucky. “I don't want to be alone,” he admitted. He touched the glossy black curls on the back of Bucky's head with just the tips of his fingers. “I want you to stay.” He let his head fall to rest on Bucky's shoulder, breathing deeply of Bucky's familiar, calming, barely-there scent.

“Then I'll stay,” Bucky said, as if that decided it. He pet at Steve's hair.

Pulling back, Steve shook his head. “I need to be alone.”

“Oh,” Bucky said, curling in on himself a bit. “But you said—” he protested, a petulant edge to his voice.

“I'm sorry,” Steve said. He hadn't meant to— He rubbed a hand over his face. Was it just the day for Bucky to be upset with him? “I never meant—” he tried “—to...hurt you.”

“Hey, I'm okay,” Bucky insisted, offering Steve a gentle smile and putting his hand over Steve's. Bucky was— _so_ nice, honestly. Leaning in, Steve kissed him on the forehead. Bucky didn't pull back, but when Steve did, Bucky was smiling in a way that meant he hadn't expected that. “You're sure sweet when you're drunk,” Bucky said, patting him on the knee.

Steve dropped his gaze, blushing. Maybe it was just _Brock_ he was allowed to kiss like that. Or, had been allowed. For a while. He'd say he was sorry, but Bucky'd sort of...complemented him for it? Even if he was teasing. Maybe Steve shouldn't apologize.

Bucky patted him on the cheek. “Get some sleep, punk.” Steve blinked at him as Bucky stood up. “I'll get out of your way if you really want me to go.”

Steve looked at him sadly. He didn't want Bucky to go—but, because it was true, he repeated, “I need to be alone.”

“All right,” Bucky said, nodding and flashing Steve a smile like he really didn't mind. He guided Steve down to lie on his pillows and pulled the blankets over him. “G'night, Stevie,” he said, giving Steve a reassuring pat on the shoulder before he left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you were thinking all the biology in this story is entirely made up...
> 
> I actually knew a woman irl who was told from the time she was a young teen that it would be entirely impossible for her to ever get pregnant. About two decades later, several years into marriage to a man who very much didn't want children, she discovered she was pregnant.
> 
> Also, the hormone treatment Brock is being offered is based on a treatment a friend of mine had to take to avoid yet another in a string of repeated miscarriages.
> 
> I happily fudge biology all over the place (this is an a/b/o story, after all!), but sometimes there's a bit of basis in reality. ;)
> 
> Notes on characters and canon:  
> In the comics, before it was retconned, Sharon Carter was originally written as Peggy's younger sister.


	7. Chapter 7

Steve made it through the next day at work—because, when he had to be, he could be pretty damn good at compartmentalizing. The one thing he _couldn't_ do right then was lose his job.

When his shift ended, he checked his phone. There...weren't any texts or missed calls from Brock. There was one text from Bucky asking if he was okay. Steve texted back saying he was, and thanks.

Even though he wasn't. But what was he supposed to do? Break down again? It's not like he could tell Bucky what the hell was actually bothering him. So what was the point? Eventually Bucky was going to catch on to him being evasive and then get angry. Angri _er_? _Was_ Bucky mad at him? Maybe he'd just been pissed off about having to work and miss the four-day weekend. Probably was tired, too. That could explain a lot.

When Brock finally called sometime around six, Steve answered immediately. “Yeah?”

“Steve,” Brock said, sounding relieved, “is this a good time?”

“Yeah, yeah, definitely,” Steve said, sitting down on his couch and putting his bare feet up on the coffee table. “I'm home, showered and changed—I was just going to start thinking about what to eat or dinner, but yeah. We can talk. If you want.”

Brock was quiet for a moment then he said, “If—” He paused, letting out a breath. “If I do this...pregnancy...thing. Go through with it. I won't have a job so I won't have any way to pay rent.”

“I'll take care of it,” Steve replied immediately. Of course he would.

“Yeah,” Brock replied. “I figured you would...”

“Absolutely,” Steve said. There was no question. It was one thing, maybe, if an alpha balked at shilling out money for a child they didn't even want—but Steve was the one who wanted this baby. Of _course_ he'd take care of everything.

Brock chuckled softly. “Yeah, that's...good.”

“But,” Steve said, sitting up a little straighter and frowning, “you'd need to move—you can't stay in that place.”

“Right, the uh—the air quality in the hallways,” Brock said. “Wouldn't be good for the baby.”

“Yeah.” Steve relaxed a bit, the couch comfortingly familiar at his back. “We'd get you into a better place.”

“But...” A pause. “If I decide to go through with it...I can't just _move_ , you know? That usually takes a couple of weeks, minimum, to find a new place and actually move in and all.”

“And you'd want out of there right away,” Steve guessed.

“Well, yeah,” Brock replied. “I gotta—I'd have to give this kid the best chance, right?”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed. “Yeah, I feel the same way.”

“'Course you do,” Brock muttered. “You're like, the 'uber-alpha'.”

“But anyway,” Steve said, shifting on the couch so he was sitting forward and resting his forearms on his thighs, “you could stay with me. Until we find a better place. We'd want...ground floor, even with a yard, if possible.”

Brock was laughing—strained and breathless and maybe a little wet. “Sorry,” he said finally, trying to catch his breath. “It's just—you—you make it sound like—like this is possible. Like—like maybe it doesn't have to suck. Not completely.”

“I hope that's true,” Steve said seriously. “I hope to God there is some way this turns out okay.”

Brock was quiet for about a minute, then he said, “I know I said I'd take a day...” He sighed. “Obviously, I'm still thinking about it.”

Steve bit the inside of his cheek. “I wasn't going to hold you to a time limit.”

“I know, I know.” Brock sighed again. “I guess I was kinda hoping to hold myself to one, though.”

“This isn't an easy decision,” Steve reminded him.

“No,” Brock agreed, “but I'm grateful that—that you're trying to make it a bit easier.”

“If there's anything more I can do...” Steve offered. Because, if he knew anything else to do, he'd be doing it. “And if you need more time...”

“I dunno,” Brock said. “I mean, I _do_ , I guess, but then—I don't know what good it would do. Is any of this going to feel easier tomorrow? Or the next day?”

“I don't know,” Steve answered honestly.

“And...” Brock sighed. “I can't sleep—or, I couldn't. I think I've maybe had about two hours total since—well, since you were here. With me.”

“Oh.” Steve's chest did that sort of cold clenching thing.

“So I don't know how I'm supposed to think...better about any of this,” Brock continued, “if I can't sleep.”

“Is there anything—?” But, no. Steve was going to suggest maybe Brock take something to help him sleep, but that wasn't really an option. Even natural things like chamomile probably weren't safe.

“Can I come over?” Brock asked.

“Yeah,” Steve said, sitting up. “Of course.” He wet his lips, a little nervous. “Right now? Because if you come right now, I can make you dinner.”

“Yeah, that's—” A pause. “I should probably eat.”

Steve made himself say goodbye and hang up instead of demanding to know if Brock had eaten all day. Because something about how he said 'I should probably eat' sort of implied he hadn't.

o0o

When Brock knocked at the door, Steve set the wooden spoon aside and let him in. “Supper's almost ready,” Steve said, hovering a bit, awkwardly, as Brock took off his shoes. “It's—well, it's not exactly fancy, but it's this pasta and meatballs thing Sam taught me.” It was one of the healthier things he knew how to make on short notice, and the pleasant garlic and basil smell of it is filled the apartment, mingling beautifully with the smell of Brock: omega, pregnant.

Brock offered him a mild smirk. “Someone had to teach you how to make pasta?”

Steve shrugged. “Someone had to teach me how to walk, too. And talk.”

Brock laughed. “Fine. Point taken, I guess.” He rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck. “Hey, um, could you—?” He took a hesitant step towards Steve, then closed the distance between them, pressing his face into the curve of Steve's neck, shuddering, as Steve's arms came up around him.

“I've got you,” Steve whispered into Brock's hair, letting his hands stroke at Brock's back and neck.

Brock groaned, pulling back, wobbling a bit. He laughed softly. “And suddenly I'm sleepy.”

“Eat first,” Steve said, ushering him to a chair at the table. “Then sleep.”

Brock hummed agreeably, resting his folded arms on the table and leaning on them a bit. “Sounds good.”

o0o

“Steve?” Brock said into the pale light of the morning. It was still at least an hour before Steve had to be up, but he'd been at least partially awake for a while as a consequence of going to bed so early. So he'd been dozing off and on a bit and enjoying the brilliant, deep 'let me have this!' ache of Brock in his bed, safe and protected. In a lot of ways, the smell of a pregnant omega was nicer than the smell of an omega in heat—it was a lot fainter, and calming rather than enticing. It just smelled...right.

“Yeah?” Steve replied, voice a little rough. Almost unconsciously, he stroked a hand down Brock's spine, soothing.

“Would—?” Brock shifted, warm and beautiful at Steve's side. He yawned. “Would we be looking for a place _together_ , or...?”

“Well, that would depend on what you wanted, I guess,” Steve said. He was trying to be reasonable and rational about this. If Brock wanted his space, then Steve needed to give it to him.

“Fuck,” Brock grumbled, turning onto his back without moving away from Steve. “Which would be weirder, anyway? Living together like a bonded pair...or you 'keeping' me. Like some kind of 'side omega'.” He shot Steve a look. “That kinda thing feels pretty skeevy, right?”

Steve smiled a bit, his arm around Brock and hand not quite gripping his shoulder. “I don't think it really looks like a 'side' anything if the alpha is single.” It wasn't that weird for a single alpha to support an omega—or even a female beta—and a child. Sometimes relationships didn't work out, but the alpha was still expected to provide for his offspring.

“Okay, but...” Brock chuckled. “Ideally, you're not gonna stay single forever.”

“I guess not,” Steve replied. “But a lot of alphas have a child or two before they finally settle down. Isn't that—normal?” He frowned. Maybe it wasn't the 'best', 'picture-perfect' scenario, but it was common enough not to raise eyebrows.

“Right.” Brock settled a bit against Steve's side. “I guess it's just hard to remember sometimes that you've somehow managed to slip through the cracks: a healthy, _extremely_ good-looking and especially _decent_ alpha your age, somehow managing to be single.” Steve just shrugged. After a moment, Brock said, “But if I'm gonna need you with me every night so I can sleep...”

“You think maybe we might as well just share a place?” Steve guessed.

Brock made a face. “Yeah. I mean, why pay double rent, right? So I was thinking...'until the baby's born', but then, I mean, it's your kid and you're gonna want to see it, spend time with it...play, cuddle... All that.”

“Yeah.” Steve's brow furrowed a bit. “Would you...feed the baby? Once it's born? You wouldn't have to—” There were other options, of course, though all had potential risks.

Brock sighed. “If I go through with this, Steve, I might as well _go through with it_. I'm not—I wouldn't just dump it on your doorstep and expect you to take it from there.” His lips twisted unhappily. “Assuming my body gets the hint after everything, I should be making free milk.” He shrugged. “Why let that go to waste?” He wrinkled his nose. “And since I'm going to be out of work anyway...”

“There are other jobs,” Steve tried, “even with flexible hours and—'work at home' options...”

“Yeah.” Brock let out an unimpressed laugh. “Maybe I could be a security consultant instead of a security guard.”

“Maybe.” Steve offered him a small, encouraging smile. Then he frowned, remembering. “Actually, Fury's been looking for someone to help out with payroll—if you don't mind switching over to SHIELD.”

“At this point,” Brock said, giving Steve a sort of resigned look, “the thought of having any sort of legit work _anywhere_ is looking pretty good.” He shifted a bit, letting out a grumpy sort of breath. “And besides, STRIKE has this very obvious though not technically in writing 'no omegas' rule when it comes to hiring. Regardless of position. And I doubt the 'I'm pregnant and I went into heat, but I'm not actually an omega' argument is going to work so well.”

“I'm sorry,” Steve said. “That sucks.”

Brock shrugged. “You probably don't notice it so much being an alpha, but a lot of companies still are pretty sexist.”

“Well actually...” Steve pursed his lips. “I have been turned down a few times for being an _alpha_. They don't say it that way, but...I'm pretty sure that's what it means when they say, 'you don't have the temperament we're looking for'—when they've just met me and have no idea what my temperament actually _is_ —or when they mention how 'imposing' I am.”

“Yeah, probably,” Brock agreed, one side of his lips turning up in a wry curve. “But you know...I don't know if I'd be the best person for some sort of bookkeeping job; I have no experience in that area, and your boss probably wants someone who knows what they're doing.”

“Fury wants someone who can follow directions,” Steve replied, grinning a bit. “He's always getting so annoyed. He says all the good administrative people keep getting snapped up by Stark Industries. Nobody wants to work for a little unglamourous company like SHIELD anymore.” He shot Brock a thoughtful look. “Actually, Stark Industries is another place you might find something. They're always hiring for a few different things and they're actually one of the leaders when it comes to 'progressive' hiring practices.”

Brock grunted, rolling onto his side and pressing his nose into Steve's chest. “Right now, I think I'm happy to burn through all my sick days for a bit. Also, you smell good.”

Smiling, Steve pressed his nose into Brock's hair, taking a deep breath. “So do you.”

Brock shifted, pressing closer, his half-hard cock warm against Steve's thigh. Steve swallowed. He hadn't even been registering any level of arousal, but now suddenly his whole body was alight. His grip on Brock tightened and he even let out a low, involuntary growl. Brock laughed softly. “Wow,” he breathed, leaning in close to Steve's face, eyelids heavy. “You go from zero to horny just like...that.” He nipped at Steve's jaw.

Steve closed his eyes, trying to calm his thoughts. Did they have _time_ for this? He needed to get up and shower and dress. He needed to make Brock breakfast and make sure he would be okay while Steve was at work—did Steve have enough food in the apartment? He hadn't even shown Brock where the thermostat was yet. Or...towels, for that matter. Had yet to give him the wifi password. And, he was probably getting a bit ahead of himself. Just because Brock wanted to stay the night didn't mean he wanted to stay all day. Maybe it wasn't the most logical thing to ask or the best way to ask it, but he caught Brock's wandering hand, kissed it, and said, “Will you stay? Today, while I'm at work.”

One side of Brock's mouth tipped up. “You really don't want me going back to my place, do you? Too 'rough' for your tastes?”

“A bit,” Steve admitted, letting out a sigh. “It's hard for me to feel that you're safe there, even though I know you've lived there for years.”

“I wasn't pregnant before,” Brock pointed out. He made a face, looking away. “Honestly, I don't think _I_ feel safe there right now. 'S probably half the reason I can't sleep.”

Steve hummed thoughtfully. “That makes sense.”

“So I _guess_...” Brock said, heaving an exaggerated sigh and shooting Steve a playful look “...since you don't want me going home and I don't want to go home... But.” His face twisted up a bit. “I think I need to see my doctor again today.” He glanced at Steve. “So I guess I won't stay the whole time, if I'm going out for that.”

“Oh.” Steve sat up, frowning. “You'd need a key to get back in. And I don't actually have a spare.” It wasn't just the key; he'd need the buzzer for the front door too, and that was something he'd need to get directly from the building manager. “I can give you mine,” he said, “but then you'd have to let me back in when I get off work.”

Brock, sitting up as well, scratched at the back of his head. “I have no idea what time my appointment would be. I mean—I might be at the doctor's when you get off work.” He shrugged. “Sorry.”

“This is what we'll do,” Steve said decisively as he climbed out of bed and stepped out into the hallway to grab his keys from the kitchen counter. Stepping back into the room, he worked the apartment keys—the unit key and the front door buzzer on their own little ring—free of the rest. “I'll give you these,” he said, handing them over to Brock, “so you can come and go as you please today. When I get off work, I can just meet you wherever you are—if that's the doctor's, I can wait in the waiting area until you're done.”

Brock nodded slowly, gaze drifting down to the keys in his hand. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Steve said, checking the time again. He was still okay; it wasn't even time for his alarm to ring yet.

“Steve?” Brock said, sounding hesitant, unsure.

“Yeah?” Steve's eyes flicked back to Brock where he knelt on Steve's bed in the middle of rumpled sheets.

Swallowing, Brock dropped his gaze. “I'm going to start the hormone treatments—that's why I need to see the doctor today.”

“Oh.” Steve could only stare, frozen and stupid for a moment, and then a huge bubble of happiness started to bloom from inside his chest. He took a step toward Brock. “You're sure?”

“Yeah.” Brock let out a shaky breath, picking at a loose thread on the edge of one of the sheets. “I think—I think I lied...a lot...when I said I didn't want kids. I mean...” He shrugged. “Mostly to myself, I guess. Because—what's the point of wanting something you can't have, right? But—” He let out a sharp breath. “I...I really, really want this baby.” His voice broke and there were tears on his cheeks, and Steve was hugging him tight. “I want that—” Brock gasped. “That life where—there's a yard, and—” He pressed his wet eyes against Steve's shoulder, tears soaking through the material of his shirt. “I want to _hold_ my baby and I want to teach it stuff and watch it grow—”

“Yes,” Steve said, because, God, he wanted that too. So bad. He choked a bit, tears dampening his own face. “We can get a place with a yard—anything you want.” He buried his hands in Brock's dark curls, kissing his forehead. Was this real? It was like Christmas and his birthday, like all Christmases and all birthdays, except unexpected. He wanted to say 'thank you', but somehow it felt inappropriate.

“Gods, you smell good when you're happy,” Brock mumbled, bumping his nose under Steve's jaw and brushing a kiss to his neck. (Peggy used to say he smelled like fresh-baked apple pie, but that might not be the best thing to bring up. Also, it might not be anything he'd want to tell anyone. Ever. Because it was just the sort of thing Bucky would tease him about _for the rest of his life_.)

“I _am_ happy,” Steve said, pulling back so he could grin down at Brock. He pressed a kiss to Brock's forehead.

“I can tell.” Brock chuckled.

“Yeah.” Steve just beamed at Brock for a bit then finally said, “I guess I should let you make that appointment.”

“Yeah.” Brock pulled back, turning and fumbling for his phone. “And you gotta get ready for work and stuff.”

Pausing in the bedroom doorway, Steve looked back at Brock. “Let me make you breakfast? Please.”

Brock laughed, falling back against the pillows. “Sure. I'll just stay here then.”

God. He could stay there forever. That would be okay.

o0o

Of course Brock actually did get out of bed to eat breakfast—which was over easy eggs, hash browns from frozen, and sliced oranges. Steve even managed to get the eggs right, which he rarely did when frying, so he was sort of disproportionally proud of himself.

“Uh, one thing,” Brock said as he scooped up a fork-full of ketchup-covered hash browns.

“Yeah?” Steve looked up from his plate.

Brock shifted his his chair, chewing on his bottom lip. “Obviously it'll have to come out that I'm pregnant...but can we just let everyone think I'm an omega?”

“Sure, of course,” Steve replied. It wasn't anyone's business what Brock's genitals looked like. In fact, if anyone was too curious, Steve might just have to make them back the hell off. Okay, so he was going all _possessive_ alpha. Internally, he sighed at himself. It was the pregnancy, of course; even when he wasn't consciously noticing the scent, it was working on him subconsciously, signalling all sorts of 'protect and provide' instincts.

“So if you tell your boss that you've got a dependant now,” Brock added, “to update your insurance or whatever, just say it's a pregnant omega.”

Steve nodded. “Yeah. Whatever you want; that's—your privacy is important.”

o0o

Steve's bus always got him to work a few minutes early, so he had time to pop into Fury's office and request the 'new dependant' form.

“Am I to assume congratulations are in order?” Fury asked, raising his eyebrow as he pulled the form from a filing cabinet, handing it to Steve.

Steve couldn't help blushing a bit, but he kept his voice calm saying, “Yes, sir. And thank you. I'm going to be a sire, actually.”

“Well.” A slow smile spread across Fury's face. “Then congratulations really _are_ in order.” He gestured to the paper in Steve's hand. “Be sure to mark down the due date so we know when to expect your next 'new dependant'.”

Steve nodded. “I will, sir.” He shifted his stance a bit. “You have children, sir?”

Fury nodded. “Two sons: Mikel and Nick Junior. Two different dams, never bonded or married either.” Steve shifted a bit, knowing full well why Fury would bring up that particular detail: if Steve had bonded—or married—someone, that would likely have been the first announcement. “Mikel's actually about your age, Rogers,” Fury added gesturing to Steve. Steve nodded. Fury looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. “I wasn't overly involved with raising either of my boys—it was a bit of a different world, and I let the dams handle most things, especially with us not being bonded.” He shot Steve a pointed look, adding, “I paid for everything, of course.”

Steve nodded. “Of course.”

“But...” Fury continued, “if you need a bit of advice from someone who's been there, I'd be willing to offer what I have.” He smiled, warm and friendly.

“Thank you, sir,” Steve replied. “I appreciate that.” It wasn't like he could ask his own sire—Joseph Rogers had died before Steve was born.

Fury clapped him on the back, smiling broadly. “I'm proud of you, Rogers. In case you needed to hear that.”

Steve look at him, hesitantly relieved, mildly surprised, and grateful. “I think I did, sir. Thank you.” After a pause filled with second-guesses, he cleared his throat and said, “The omega has been having trouble sleeping—unless I'm there.”

Fury nodded. “That's pretty normal, from what I hear.” He shook his head. “If either Mikel or Nick Junior's dams had a problem, though, I never heard about it—however, Nick Junior's dam was a beta, so that wouldn't really be an issue there. But omegas are a different story—they're more like us in a lot of ways: volatile, moody, in need of reassurance. And, especially when they're pregnant, they need to feel safe.” He tilted his head slightly to the side. “If you're willing to be there for your omega, and it's helping, just keep it up.”

Steve nodded. That was absolutely something he was willing to do. “Thank you, sir.”

“You'll do great, kid.” Fury gave Steve's shoulder a firm squeeze. “I have faith in you.” He pushed Steve towards the door. “Now get out there and get to work before I have to start docking your pay.”

Steve grinned as he dropped the form and his phone off at his locker. He still had a minute and a half before his shift started.

o0o

Steve checked his phone at the end of his shift, finding a text from Brock:

_Dr apt at 4:30 – I'll let you know when I'm done._

He also included the address of the clinic in case Steve wanted to come meet him there. Since Brock had yet to text him again, Steve caught a cab over and walked in just in time to see Brock come out of one of the exam rooms with a red-haired beta woman in a lab coat.

“Steve,” Brock said, smiling when he saw him. Steve returned the smile.

“So this is the alpha?” the doctor, a 'J Grey' by her name tag, asked. Aside from the three of them and the receptionist behind the counter, the small waiting room was deserted.

Brock nodded. “Yeah.” He gestured to Steve. “Steve Rogers.”

“Doctor Jean Grey,” she said, approaching Steve and holding out her hand. Steve shook it. “It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Mister Rogers, after hearing so much about you,” she continued. “Mister Rumlow tells me you're in the process of moving in together.”

Steve nodded. “That's right.”

Doctor Grey smiled. “That will be good for both of you, but especially for Brock at this point.”

“Yeah.” Steve nodded. He clenched his teeth momentarily to keep from rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. “He's been having some trouble sleeping.”

“As he's told me,” Doctor Grey agreed. “But that should ease up a bit once you've settled into a stable routine. Anyway, it really was great to meet you, and I hope you'll consider coming to some of the appointments with Brock in the future.” She offered Steve a hopeful, expectant smile.

Steve looked at Brock who shrugged and scratched awkwardly at the back of his head. “I guess that's what you do,” Brock said.

“It would be helpful for both of you to know what to expect,” Doctor Grey explained, smiling, poised and professional.

“If you want me to come,” Steve said, taking Brock's hand, “I'll come.”

Brock melted a bit against Steve's side. “Yeah,” he mumbled.

“Well.” With a warmer smile, Doctor Grey took a step back from them. “I hope you two have a good week.”

o0o

“So,” Steve said, as they climbed into Brock's pick-up, “I'd like to take you out to dinner—wherever you want to go.”

Brock looked down at himself, at his dark grey sweatpants and scuffed runners. “I'm not exactly dressed for fine dining, Steve.”

“You want me to take you someplace nice?” Steve nudged Brock's arm. “I can take you someplace nice, but I think we both might want to change first.” He was still in his work uniform. Which smelled of work.

Brock sighed. “I know you're trying to do something nice for me, Steve, but...” He made a face, shifting awkwardly in his seat. He sighed again. “I don't really feel up to...being around people right now.” He offered Steve an apologetic look. “We can order in, though, if you want.”

“Sure,” Steve said, squeezing Brock's knee. “Or I could pick something up—there's a pretty good sushi place about two blocks from my place.”

“Sushi sounds nice,” Brock replied, buckling his seat belt. “Haven't had it in a while.” He shot Steve a curious look. “They do the one teriyaki beef roll? And tempura too? I don't usually like green beans all that much, but I like them when they're tempura.”

“Yeah,” Steve said, nodding. “They do a good teriyaki beef roll. And some pretty great tempura too.”

o0o

They stopped off at Brock's place to grab a few more of his things, then headed to the sushi place. Brock stayed in the truck, because apparently he was serious about not wanting to be around people. And whatever Brock needed to feel comfortable was good as far as Steve was concerned, but as Steve waited for the sushi chef to finish his order, he kept an eye on the truck through the window. Just...in case. Thankfully, the place wasn't busy so Steve was in and out quickly—Brock had his phone, but it was probably still boring just sitting and waiting.

“Okay,” Steve said, climbing back into the passenger seat and setting the food on the seat between them to buckle himself back in, “I got the teriyaki roll you wanted, lots of tempura, a California roll—because I figure everyone likes that—and miso soup.”

Brock nodded. “Sounds good.” As he put the truck in gear he added, “By the way, I noticed your fish in the fridge today—you should probably put it in the freezer if you're not going to cook it soon.”

“Thought you said it wasn't worth cooking,” Steve teased, shifting the food to his lap so it wouldn't slide around as the truck moved.

Brock laughed softly, shaking his head. “You wouldn't have brought it all the way home if it wasn't important to you.”

Steve _had_ been meaning to ask Sam to help him cook the fish. But he hadn't even so much as texted Sam since he got back. He was probably being a bad friend (he usually was, to some degree), but he really had been having a complicated few days.

“I guess I should get a parking space,” Steve said as Brock pulled into the parking lot at Steve's building, “so you don't have to park in visitor's all the time. There's a carport underground, so it's out of the weather. I mean, for until we find a better place.”

“Right,” Brock said, nodding as he pulled into the parking space. He put the truck in park and killed the engine. He paused, turning to look at Steve. “I suppose I should mention, since things sort of were heading in that direction this morning...” He dropped his gaze, fiddling with the keys in his hand. “...that the doctor said I should avoid sex for now—apparently orgasms can cause uterine contractions.” He grimaced. “She said it should be safe once I've been on the hormone treatment for about a week or two, though.” He shot Steve a glance. “She recommend cuddling, though, and physical affection. She said that's all really good, actually. Helpful. Especially now.”

“All right,” Steve said. He put his hand on Brock's wrist, reassuring. “None of that is going to be a problem for me.”

Brock nodded in acknowledgement then sort of grinned, shaking his head. “Figured it wouldn't be.”

o0o

Brock was draped over Steve where he lay on the bed. Together they'd eaten all of the food, and Steve's belly was a little overfull—but pleasantly so. Brock, shifting restlessly atop him, was also pleasant, though far less relaxing. Brock's cock, which had been steadily hardening as they lay together, pressed into Steve's belly as he shifted again. Brock sighed. “Sorry.”

Steve stroked his hands over Brock's back. “Maybe we should try a different position.”

“Yeah, sure,” Brock said, sliding off of Steve and reaching for his glass of water. He shot Steve an annoyed look. “Shouldn't _you_ be the frustrated, horny one?”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “Because I'm an alpha?”

Brock nodded. He took another swallow of water and set his glass aside. “That, and the fact that you got me off that one time in the shower and as far as I know you haven't gotten off since—” He narrowed his eyes at Steve. “Wait, have you?”

Technically, it wasn't Brock's business, but Steve just shrugged. “Haven't really had a chance.”

“Well,” Brock said, lying down on his side propped up on one elbow, “you can go take a bath right now if you want—since _I_ can't get off for the next week or two, and one of us might as well.”

One side of Steve's mouth curled up in a smile. “I'm fine, Brock.”

Brock's eyes drifted to where Steve's half-hard cock was fully obscured beneath the covers. His hand found Steve's knee through the layers then slid halfway up the inside of Steve's thigh, pulling the covers until the outline of Steve's cock was no longer obscured. Keeping his eyes on it, he deadpanned, “You're sure.”

Steve laughed. “I've had worse.”

“Yeah, well.” Brock shook his head. “I've heard blue balls is actually really bad for alphas—isn't it supposed to start chipping actual years off your life?”

Steve shot him an incredulous look. “I'm pretty sure that's just something extremely pathetic alphas say when trying to get laid.”

Brock slapped Steve's thigh, making him hiss just a little. Brock laughed. “Maybe _you_ should be trying to get laid. Just...” His eyes slid away. “...obviously not with me.”

“I don't see how that's fair,” Steve pointed out reasonably. “If you have to go without sex for a week—or even two—why shouldn't I?”

Brock rolled his eyes. “No reason for both of us to suffer. Anyway.” He sat up, putting his back to the headboard. His features twisted a bit. “How is this going to work? This.” He gestured between the two of them. “We're going to be living together like a bonded pair, but...what if one of us wants to fuck someone else?”

Okay, that was a fair question. Steve swallowed, clenching his jaw a bit and telling himself quite firmly that he had no reason at all to be _jealous_. “Well...we could work around the whole living together thing,” Steve suggested. “And...once the baby is born, I could watch it for a few hours if you wanted to...”

Brock laughed. “I meant _you_ , moron. If _you_ wanted to fuck someone else. Who the hell am _I_ gonna fuck?”

Steve twitched one shoulder in a small shrug. “As you were quite proud to point out, you've had more experience 'fucking' than I have.”

“Yeah, but.” Brock looked away, scoffing. “You'd be surprised just how big a damper having to _hide your genitals_ puts on 'the mood'.” Making a face, he spread his hands a bit. “Sure, I fucked people. It just wasn't ever very _good_.”

“So what you're suggesting,” Steve said, “is that you should be exclusive to me while I'm not exclusive to you?” That sounded disturbingly like that awful saying about flowers and bees. Even if Brock's reasoning was somewhat different.

Brock made a quiet, frustrated sound. “What reason would _you_ have to be exclusive to me?”

“Fairness?” Steve suggested.

Brock snorted, shaking his head. “What the hell in all the world is 'fair'?”

“Nothing,” Steve admitted. Rolling onto his side, he looked at Brock. “But we can try to _make_ things fair.”

Brock's brows twisted with incredulity. “Why?”

“Because it's nicer for everyone that way!”

Brock snorted. “'Nicer for everyone'? If you have sex with someone else, that's nicer for you and doesn't hurt me in the slightest. If you don't have sex with someone else, then that doesn't affect me but is considerably less nice for you.” He shrugged. “I'm not really seeing your point here.”

“We're talking about two weeks!” Steve protested. He shook his head, a bit of a wry smile tugging at his lips. “I think I can last two weeks.”

Brock rolled his eyes. “I'm sure you've lasted a lot longer than that, but the point is: why should you?”

“Because...” Steve stared at him. He chewed on his bottom lip. “Because I'd feel guilty,” he finally admitted.

Brock spread his hands. “That's really your _own issue_ , Steve.”

Steve flopped down on his back, letting out a frustrated breath. After a moment he said, “But wouldn't you...get jealous? I mean, if I could have all this sex—” With whatever hypothetical partner or partners. (Maybe Steve was meant to just pick up random people in bars. Because that was a thing people did. Apparently.) “—but you couldn't?”

Making a face, Brock rubbed at the back of his neck. He let out an unhappy sigh. “I'm sort of used to being jealous of everyone when it comes to sex.”

Steve rolled onto his side once again, a sharp, protective sadness filling his chest. He reached for Brock, his hand falling short and resting on the bed. “Can we—not fight?”

Brock rolled his eyes. “Who's fighting?” he grumbled as he slid back down to lie next to Steve, snuggling back into the curve of his body.

Steve breathed deep of Brock's soothing sent. He kissed the back of Brock's neck and slid one careful, protective hand over Brock's belly. “I care about you.”

“Because I'm having your kid?” Brock asked, quiet laughter sounding jaded.

“That's part of it, sure,” Steve admitted. He kissed Brock's shoulder. “But also because you're my friend.”

Brock relaxed in his arms. After a moment, he said, “I guess I just want you to know that if you _did_ want to have sex with someone, that would be fine. I don't have any claim on you or whatever.”

“Okay,” Steve said. He really didn't want to fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 'saying about flowers and bees' Steve disparagingly references is from 'The King and I'. It's a really gross supposed justification for sexual double standards.
> 
> Notes on characters and canon:  
> Mikel Fury and Nicholas Fury, Jr are Nick Fury's sons (by Amber D’Alexis and Nia Jones, respectively) in Earth-616.  
> Doctor Jean Grey here is based on her appearances in the X-Men films where she is portrayed by Famke Janssen.


	8. Chapter 8

Steve's phone buzzed, alerting him to a text and waking him from his doze. He fumbled with it for a moment, trying to get it to stop making noise because it could wake up Brock who was curled snugly against Steve's chest. He blinked at the brightness of the screen. It was, apparently, only ten pm.

Bucky had texted saying:

_Dude, you don't call, you don't write._

A new text popped up just as Steve was reading that one:

_It's Friday night! Just because you're fucking one of your friends doesn't mean you should never see the rest of them._

Frowning, Steve typed back a reply:

_What makes you think I'm fucking anyone?_

He rolled onto his back, trying to hold the phone in such a way that it wasn't shining a cold white light on Brock.

Bucky's reply popped up:

_Brock's truck is parked outside your place. Again._

Then:

_I thought you guys were doing the fuck-buddy breakup thing._

Steve sighed, rubbing at his forehead. It was a little childish, but Bucky really brought that out in him; Steve typed back:

_Brock and I aren't fucking._

Because that was true. They had to wait at least a week.

The problem was, that sort of bullshit never really worked on Bucky. He replied:

_Obviously, unless you're texting me while his cock's up your ass, and that would be weird._

Steve rolled his eyes. Apparently he was bringing the childish out in Bucky too.

Brock rolled over, making a face. “Who—?” He rubbed at his eyes, yawning. “Who's got you making that face at your phone?”

Steve sighed, offering Brock an apologetic smile. “Bucky. And sorry I woke you up.”

Brock shrugged. “Sort of fell asleep kinda early there.” He'd needed the sleep, though—probably still needed it. He nodded towards Steve's phone. “So what's the deal with Barnes? You smell...upset.”

“Sorry.” Steve ran his fingers through Brock's hair, grinning proudly at how Brock's expression softened and how he leaned into the touch. Steve sighed, smiling lopsidedly. “Bucky just wants to know why your truck's parked outside.”

Brock snorted, peeking at Steve through narrow slits between his eyelids. “That's pretty stalker-ish.”

“That's...Bucky,” Steve tried to explain. Lamely. He made a face. “We've been friends since we were kids.”

“Wish I had a childhood friend who'd stalk me.” Brock giggled a bit, pressing his face into Steve's chest. “Sounds real romantic.”

“Bucky's just...always been protective of me,” Steve said. Shifting, he rubbed at Brock's back between his shoulder blades, earning a grateful groan from Brock who shifted closer. “It comes from when I was tiny and he was big.”

Brock hummed, breath warm through Steve's shirt. His brow furrowed. “Bet he really doesn't approve of me—probably thinks you deserve better.”

Steve frowned. That was...pretty much exactly what Bucky had said. He sighed. “He thinks we're fucking.”

Brock raised an eyebrow. “As in, right now?”

“No, just...since the cabin.”

Brock snorted. “We _haven't_ fucked since the cabin.”

That was true. Steve scratched his fingers through his hair. “But according to Bucky's detective skills, it kinda looks like we have been.”

Brock snorted again. “'Detective skills,'” he parroted. “ _Also_ known as 'stalking'.”

Steve shook his head. Brock just didn't understand about Bucky. And speaking of Bucky... Shit. He probably thought Steve was offended since he'd yet to reply to that last text.

Brock raised an eyebrow at him. “You look—and smell—worried.” He made a face. “Like, even more.”

“Sorry.” Steve chewed at his bottom lip. “I just—I gotta reply to his text. He—” He sighed. “I don't want him to be mad at me.” He'd had enough of that for one week. He'd had a hell of a week overall.

Brock gave him an odd look for a moment, but then he just sort of shrugged and flopped down on the bed. “Well, we're gonna have to tell people eventually—so I guess you can tell him I'm moving in. Since...he wanted to know why my truck was here.”

Steve grimaced. “He'll want to know why. I mean, why you're moving in.” Sam would want to know why too, but Sam had something resembling tact—he might even wait a bit to see if Steve would explain on his own. Bucky would go full 'bad cop' on Steve. (Steve might not be able to handle that after the week he'd had.)

Brock blew out a breath through his lips. “You can tell him.” He closed his eyes, cheek resting soft against the pillow. “Tell him I'm pregnant—that I went into heat and you're the sire and all that.”

Steve sighed. “You're right.” He nodded. “I do need to tell him.” The longer he kept this from Bucky with no good reason, the worse it could be. “I guess I just feel like—it should be something I say in person, maybe.”

Brock shifted a bit, eyes still closed. “So invite him over. Obviously he's still up.”

Steve took a deep breath and let it out. Nothing like taking a leap off a cliff when he had no idea what might be at the bottom. (Maybe he'd been doing that a lot lately.) “Okay.”

To Bucky, he typed:

_Can you come over?_

He hit send and dropped his phone onto his chest. Why was he freaking out, though? He shouldn't be _this_ worried about telling his best friend he was going to be a sire. He'd already told his honestly-as-intimidating-as-hell boss. And he pretty much told Bucky _everything_. But somehow...he'd never been this scared to tell him something before. Maybe because Bucky'd already been acting weird. About Brock, specifically. But... Steve firmed his jaw. It would be fine. Now that he could tell Bucky the truth—or something exceptionally close to it—everything would be okay.

Leaning over, Steve pressed a kiss to Brock's hairline. “You can stay in bed if you want—you need your rest.”

Brock made some snuffling noises then yawned. “Yeah, think I will.”

o0o

Bucky, who was apparently incapable of behaving like a civilized person, climbed over the balcony railing and came in through the sliding door. Steve, sitting on the couch and watching him, shook his head, smiling in mild incredulity. “I could have buzzed you in.”

Bucky shrugged as he slid the door shut behind him. “But this is more fun. And besides...” Flopping down on the other end of the couch, he turned his face to Steve and grinned. “...it's a great way to stay in shape.”

“Some of us prefer running,” Steve pointed out reasonably.

Bucky wrinkled his nose. “About that...” He reached over, swatting Steve on the thigh. “Sam says you haven't run with him all week.”

Steve grimaced. He rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck. “It's...been quite the week.”

Bucky snorted softly. “So where's your boy toy hiding, anyway?”

Steve sighed quietly, rubbing at the spot on his forehead just above where his brows met. “Brock's in bed.”

Bucky snorted again, looking amused. “I suppose that's a logical place to keep him.”

“Bucky...” Steve was far too tired for this.

Bucky held up his hands. “Sorry.” He shook his head. “God, I'm being such a dick right now.” He shot Steve an imploring look. “Are you okay? Last time we talked...” He grimaced, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Well, you were kinda broken up over...” He jerked his head in the direction of the bedroom. “...him.”

Part of that had been because Steve couldn't tell Bucky what was really going on. A pretty damn large part. But he finally could. A bit of a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Uh, Brock's actually moving in with me. Which is why his truck is parked outside.”

Bucky's intense, narrow-eyed gaze cut to Steve. “What?” He laughed a little nervously. “That seems—uh, totally out of nowhere.”

What would be the best way to say it? Pressing his lips together, Steve swallowed. Maybe in order, but keeping things brief, at least for now. “When we were out at the cabin together...” Bucky rolled his eyes, but Steve pressed on, “Brock unexpectedly went into heat.” Bucky gaped at him. “He—” Steve drew a shaky breath and let it out. This was _good_ news. “He's pregnant now—I'm going to be a sire, Buck.”

“What—” Bucky's voice scratched, like static on an old radio. He swallowed, still staring, wide-eyed. “What the fuck?”

Steve cleared his throat. “Like I told you, Buck, neither of us planned this—he didn't expect to go into heat. And—” Most likely some stuff beyond just the simple fact he was intersex would be better shared by Brock himself, but some things were important just for context. “He didn't think he could get pregnant; his doctor had told him he was infertile.”

“Brock is an _omega_?” Okay so that was the point Bucky was at. He probably needed a bit more time to process.

Steve nodded. “I didn't know, either,” he said softly. “Until he went into heat.”

“What the fuck?” Bucky repeated. He rubbed a hand over his mouth. “What the fuck, Stevie?” He spluttered for a bit, looking from Steve towards the bedroom door and back. “Why would he pretend to be a beta? It's two thousand sixteen! Last time I checked, omegas had rights!”

Steve bit the inside of his cheek. He spread his hands a bit. “A lot of people and organizations are still pretty sexist, Buck.”

“Well, sure,” Bucky agreed. “Literally _everyone_ experiences sexism, Steve, even beta males—I would know, since _I_ am one.” Steve didn't really have an answer for that, since even though from his perspective it'd always seemed like beta males had it the easiest, he couldn't really know what it was like to be one. “And hadn't he ever heard of suppressants?”

“He'd never gone into heat before,” Steve tried explain. “It was part of the infertility thing.” Bucky shot him an incredulous look, and Steve added, “There'd be no reason to take suppressants your whole life if you didn't think it was _possible_ to go into heat. That would just be a waste of money and resources.”

Rolling his eyes, Bucky scoffed. “Well, obviously _not_.” His face twitched with what looked like impatience and annoyance. “In this particular case.”

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can we not—? Why are we arguing about this?” He grimaced. “Brock's just had a huge upset to his entire life—most of which was _my_ fault, by the way.” He gestured pointedly to his own chest. “But we're figuring things out, and—”

“How did you not know he was an omega?” Bucky's jaw hardened and his eyes flashed.

Steve blinked at him. “What?”

“Was he using scent blockers?” Bucky's lips twisted unhappily. “Because an omega could fool a beta, sure; they don't smell any different to _us_. But _you_ should have known—” He pointed an accusatory finger at Steve's chest. “—the moment he walked into a room.”

“Bucky—” Steve tried.

But Bucky shook his head. “ _No_ , Steve. Unless you can just magically turn betas into omegas by the power of your alpha-ness, then it looks to me like this guy who'd been using scent blockers for the whole time you'd known him to lull you into this false sense of security just _happened_ to 'forget' his suppressants the one weekend the two of you were stranded together in a wilderness cabin—because now he's moving into your space and manipulating you to support him, isolating you from all your friends—”

“ _Bucky_!” Steve stared at him in horror. “That is _not_ what happened!” He gestured between himself and where Brock lay, hopefully asleep or at least not hearing any of this, in the bedroom. “That's not what's happening here!” He drew and let out a shaky breath, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “Brock's pregnancy is high-risk, so he has to quit his job—of _course_ I'm going to support him; I'm the one who got him pregnant in the first place!” What kind of a repulsive deadbeat would he be if he didn't? If he turned Brock out and expected him to just deal with everything on his own? “And right now he can't sleep unless I'm there, so he kinda _has_ to stay with me, at least until his hormones settle down a bit more. But, Bucky...” Flickers of a hopeful smile played about the edges of his face. “I'm going to be a _sire_ , Bucky. Brock and I are having a baby together.” He'd wanted Bucky to be happy or at least...okay with it? (Shouldn't his best friend be clapping him on the back, saying 'congratulations!' and offering to take him out to celebrate?) “We're going to find a better place than this—somewhere decent for raising a kid. Somewhere with a yard...”

“No.” Bucky shook his head, eyes glistening. “No, no, no, _no_! _No_ , Stevie!” He stood up, shoving his hand back through his hair. He turned hurt, miserable eyes on Steve. “Fuck _you_ , Stevie.”

Brow furrowed with worry and confusion, Steve stood up as well. “Bucky?”

He reached for him, but Bucky jerked away, glaring. A few stray tears finally spilled over his bottom lids. He shook his head. “Fuck _you_.”

“Bucky...” Steve's chest constricted painfully and his own eyes stung. “I don't understand.”

Bucky sort of flinched, looking angry and miserable. “No, you wouldn't, would you?”

“Bucky,” Steve said, standing helpless before Bucky's fury. “I understand that you're angry. I just don't understand _why_.”

Bucky advanced on him as though to hit him or at least grab or push him, but stopped just short. His breathing was laboured. He glared into Steve's face. Finally, he said, “After all these years, Stevie, all this time I thought you had too _high_ of standards...” He shook his head, expression disgusted. “You're just going to settle down with... _that_.”

Steve's jaw clenched and his eyes flashed cold with anger. “You don't get to talk about him like that.”

Bucky let out a disbelieving, derisive giggle. “I'll say whatever the hell I _like_ , Steve! What are you gonna do?” Challenge flashed in his eyes, and he grinned—sharp and manic. “'Teach me some manners'?”

Steve's jaw clenched again. “I won't hit you, but you don't get to stand in my home and insult my child's dam. I can and will make you leave if you can't act like an adult.”

“Yeah, of course.” Bucky took a step back, face pale and stricken. “Of course that's what'd do it for you.” He rolled his head a bit, laughing, bitter and a little mad. “You'll chose him now and you'll choose him forever.” He shook his head, taking another step back. “A guy like me never had a chance.”

Steve stared, still utterly lost. “A chance for what?”

“He's in love with you, Steve,” Brock said. Steve's head whipped around to see him standing in the doorway of the bedroom. Steve looked from Brock back to Bucky then back to Brock then back to Bucky again. If he'd done it any faster he might have gotten whiplash. Brock sighed, leaning against the doorframe. He shook his head, expression a tired sort of disbelieving. “Dear gods, how dense _are_ you?”

“You don't fucking get to insult him!” Bucky's voice broke, and Steve caught him by the arm when he took a threatening step towards Brock. He jerked in Steve's grip, shooting him a wounded look, but Steve held on. Bucky turned his glare back on Brock. “I heard you were an utter dick to him last weekend.”

Brock shrugged, scratching at his arm. He didn't even look at Steve. “That's a fair assessment.”

But Steve spluttered. “I never said that!”

“No, but I figured it out,” Bucky snarled, jerking once again in Steve's grip. He glanced once at Steve out of the corner of his eye then kept his glare focused on Brock. “I'm you're best friend, Steve; I can read between the lines.”

“If you're so good at 'reading between the lines',” Brock challenged, crossing his arms over his chest, “did you know he was starved for affection?” He scoffed, rolling his eyes. “You've been in love with him for however long, and yet you just let him suffer—alone, and miserable for it?”

“Bucky,” Steve said softly, gentling his hold on Bucky's arm. “Are—?” He frowned, still completely dumbfounded by the idea. He—he'd just never considered... “Are you?” He swallowed. His voice sounded young and small. “In love with me?”

Shaking off Steve's hand, Bucky took a step away from both him and Brock. He shook his head, a wild, helpless smile on his face. “What the hell's the _point_?” He grimaced, more tears leaking from his eyes. “You fucking _asshole_.” He turned, pacing a bit. “I fucking _knew_ you wanted kids.” His hands tightened into fists at his sides then fell loose once again. “I mean, I saw you with Patrick, saw you with Nat's entire brood.” He shook his head. “I knew you'd never be content unless you had _that_.” He shrugged, features twisting miserably. His fingers twitched helplessly at his sides. “I couldn't give you that.”

“Bucky...” Steve tried, reaching for him. He was finally starting to understand why Bucky was upset. How he'd _hurt_ Bucky. “I—”

But Bucky dodged him, shaking his head. “I—I should go.”

“Bucky, please,” Steve begged as his heart turned to dust in his chest. Bucky just shook his head, heading for the door. “Bucky...” Steve tried once more, but Bucky didn't even look back—he just slammed the apartment door with far too much force, especially considering the hour.

“Gonna go after him?” Brock asked, nodding towards the door.

“Wha—?” Steve looked from Brock to the door and back, aching from the rend in his soul. This _couldn't be happening_. His head pounded, and some part of him wanted to chase Bucky down and _make_ him understand. He shook his head. “I—need to stay with you.” Brock nodded looking away and letting out a shaky breath. Steve closed the distance between them, catching Brock by the arm. His brow furrowed with concern. “Are you all right?”

“Just a little...” Brock shook his head. “Drained, I guess.”

“Oh, my God,” Steve said, noticing the sharp relief in Brock's scent. “What—?” He swallowed. This was Steve's fault. “What'd I do?”

“You were stinking the whole place up with your overwhelming distress.” Brock rolled his eyes. “Apparently that has an effect on me.”

“I'm sorry,” Steve said, pulling him into a brief hug then steering him towards the bed. “This—this really isn't good for you feeling 'settled' here, is it?”

Brock offered him a crooked sort of smile, as he sat down on the bed. “Maybe not, but your solicitous concern is definitely appreciated by that clingy omega side of myself that I'm getting so well acquainted with.”

“It's—an intriguing side of you,” Steve admitted, sitting down next to Brock with a small, nervous laugh.

Brock raised an eyebrow. “Is that like when you call something 'interesting' because you hate it but want to be polite?”

Chuckling, Steve shook his head. He kissed Brock's cheek. “Not quite.”

“Oh, I see,” Brock grumbled as he laid down with his head on the pillow. “Just a notch or two above that. Figures.”

Steve laughed. He scrubbed his fingers through his hair. “I think—I just need to sleep right now.”

Brock took his hand, offering him a soft smile. “Sleep then.” He brought Steve's hand to his mouth, kissing it. “You'll be far wittier when you're rested.”

o0o

Steve's phone buzzed, waking him before the sun had risen. It was Sam (but that wasn't exactly a surprise, because who else would be up that early?):

_You up for a run?_

Steve looked over at where Brock lay sprawled, somehow taking up more than half the bed despite being smaller than Steve. He could leave a quick note for Brock—or send him a text—so he wouldn't feel abandoned. Steve typed back:

_Yeah._

Climbing out of bed, he pulled on a pair of sweats over his boxer-briefs then slid on his shoes.

His phone buzzed again:

_Same place, all right?_

Steve replied with a thumb's up emoticon.

o0o

The chilly, foggy air prickled at Steve's face and the back of his neck as he jogged to their regular meeting spot—a commemorative statue by the jogging trail in the local park. Sam looked up from stretching one leg to shoot Steve a welcoming smile. Steve smiled in return as he came to a stop next to the statue and started some stretches himself.

“Maria asked me why I run with an alpha,” Sam commented as he stretched his arms from one side to the other. “Told her it keeps me humble.”

Steve laughed. “Thought maybe it was because you're trying to get intel on the enemy.” Sam quirked an eyebrows at him, and Steve just shook his head, offering the explanation that was not: “Something Brock said.”

Sam nodded, taking a sip from his water bottle. “I heard a rumour about you and him.”

Steve laughed a little, stretching his hamstring until it hurt. “Depending on who you heard it from, it might be true.”

Sam shrugged. “Bucky thinks he's Sherlock Holmes.”

Steve shook his head, stretching his out arms. “Bucky kinda _is_ Sherlock Holmes.”

Sam nodded. “So.” He rolled his head around, stretching his neck. “Ready to do a few laps?”

“Few more than you,” Steve quipped, shooting him a crooked grin.

Sam pretended to be offended, but he was laughing to much for it to look real.

o0o

Steve ran until his legs threatened to give out—which of course meant he'd run _quite_ a few more laps than Sam. But as he stood, hands grasping his thighs as he tried to catch his breath, of course Sam was the one who was worried about Steve's health. Because that's what Sam did.

“I—” Steve gasped. He shook his head. “Think I just need to sit down.”

Sam nodded. “Looks like you could use a bite to eat, too—how about we grab some breakfast?”

Steve managed to stand up straight, sucking in and blowing out a slow breath in an attempt to calm himself. Sitting and eating with Sam meant talking with Sam. And talking with Sam meant a very good chance he'd fall apart. He offered Sam an apologetic grimace. “Can we go to your place?”

“Sure,” Sam agreed easily. “I know you like my cooking better than any of the professional chefs around.” He laughed, slapping Steve on the back. Grinning, he added, “I'm just that good.”

Steve sent a quick text to Brock telling him he was having breakfast with Sam and mentally reminded himself that he had no reason to feel guilty, because Brock was a grown adult who had demonstrated even while pregnant that he was capable of feeding himself while left unattended for a few hours.

o0o

“So what'll it be?” Sam asked as Steve closed Sam's front door behind himself and stooped to pull off his shoes. “Pancakes?” Sam kicked off his own shoes, pausing at the doorway to the kitchen. “Eggs? I could even do waffles if I was feeling generous and you had a bit of time to sit around.” Sam had an actual waffle iron—he wasn't just talking about the frozen, toaster kind.

“Uh.” Steve followed Sam into the kitchen on sweat-damp sock feet. He scrubbed at the sweat on the back of his neck with the frayed cuff of his sweatshirt. “Doesn't matter.” It really didn't. He needed to eat, but he didn't have an appetite. He slid into one of the wooden chair's at Sam's table, sore and tired.

Sam looked over at him. “Not interested in a cooking lesson either?”

Steve offered Sam an apologetic grimace. He really should have taken the opportunity, especially with Brock to take care of as well, with Brock being pregnant; Steve needed to get a few more healthy recipes in his skill set. And, eventually, he would need to learn to cook for a child. As excited as he honestly was, the idea of parenthood was still rather daunting. “Another time,” he promised, sounding less sincere than he was. He rubbed a hand over his face.

“All right,” Sam said, already pulling eggs from the fridge. “I'll just make French toast—sound good?”

“Yeah,” Steve said. Even though it didn't, exactly. But it _should_ have sounded good. Pushing himself to his feet again, Steve washed his hands at the kitchen sink, took two plates from the cupboard, put them on the table, then added two knives and two forks.

“You're rather quiet,” Sam observed as he whisked the eggs together in a bowl.

“Sorry,” Steve said, pinching the back of his neck with one hand and wincing a bit. “Rough night.”

Sam hummed. “Wanna talk about it?”

“Yeah.” Steve leaned against the counter then stepped away from it and walked back to the table to take a seat.

Sam watched him out of the corner of his eye, no doubt taking mental notes. “Is this maybe the sort of thing where we should eat first and then talk?”

Steve shrugged, grimacing a bit. He wiggled his toes inside his sweat-sticky socks. “Not sure I could eat.”

Sam shot him a look that lasted a few moments, considering. “I know alphas are supposed to be all immune and junk, but are you sure you're not sick?”

Steve grimaced. He needed to just _tell_ Sam already, but after the way Bucky reacted he was somewhat more hesitant. Even though there was really no logical reason to expect Sam to react negatively. “I, uh.” He scratched at his forehead with his thumbnail. “I've had a complicated week.”

“Uh-huh.” Sam shook some sort of brownish spice—cinnamon or nutmeg—into the bowl of beaten eggs. “Figured you must have been busy.”

“Yeah.” Steve winced. “Sorry about that.”

Sam waved a hand. “Don't worry about it—running by myself works too.” He chuckled, turning to the fridge to pull out a jug of milk. “I get a little less frustrated and probably get a more effective workout overall.” He poured some milk into the bowl with the eggs. “But it's a lot less fun.”

Steve grimaced, shifting uncomfortably in his chair as he watched Sam return the milk to the fridge. He wet his lips. “When we were at the cabin, Brock went into heat.”

Sam's eyes cut over to him. “Oh.”

Steve drew a shaky breath and let it out. “It was his first heat—he'd been told since he was a child that he'd never go into heat.”

Sam nodded slowly. “I've heard of cases like that. Rare, but it can happen.” He stirred the egg mixture with a wire whisk. “That must have been...quite the surprise.”

“For both of us,” Steve agreed. The chair creaked as he shifted his weight. “Once we finally guessed what was going on, I took him into the diagnostic and treatment centre—it was the, uh, closest medical centre of any kind.” Sam nodded, apparently considering Steve's actions reasonable. “The nurse practitioner confirmed he was 'effectively' in heat and let him go with some sort of 'first heat' kit.” Steve scratched at the back of his head. The drying sweat in his hair was starting to make it stiff. “He...didn't find the kit to be overly helpful.”

Sam nodded, dropping a slice of bread into the mixing bowl. “I think I can see where this is heading.”

Nodding, Steve looked down at his hands in his lap. “He had every reason to believe he was infertile, even with the heat—just turns out he wasn't.” He shook his head. “He's moving in with me for now, because he can't sleep when I'm not there—his doctor says that's a...hormonal thing.”

Sam nodded again. The frying pan sizzled when he dropped an egg-soaked slice of bread into it. “It happens sometimes, yeah. Happened to my sister when she was pregnant with her first.” His brow furrowed thoughtfully and his eyes narrowed a bit. He looked over at Steve. “I think it only lasted the first trimester, though.”

Steve nodded. “Yeah, his doctor didn't seem to think it would last the whole pregnancy either.” He shrugged. “Not that I mind having him there—it's actually pretty nice to share a bed.” He scrubbed a hand back through his hair, still damp and kinda gross with drying sweat. “Bucky noticed Brock's truck was parked at my place last night and wanted to know why. Brock said to tell him, so I did...and, well, Bucky...” He shook his head. His voice broke when he said, “I'm pretty sure he _hates_ me now.”

Sam frowned slightly, and the frying pan sizzled again when he turned the slice of bread. “You guys do this over text?”

Steve shook his head. “He came over—I invited him.” He let out a shaky breath. “At first he was asking a lot of questions, and he seemed angry that Brock had 'lied' about being a beta. But then he just started freaking out: swearing and yelling. And I couldn't figure out what had set him off.” He shook his head. “Brock got up and came out to the living room to say Bucky's in love with me, and it was sort of this whole stand-off thing in my living room with the two of them snarling at each other—and I had to hold Bucky off Brock, because he legitimately looked like he would hurt him.”

Sam dropped a new slice of egg-soaked bread into the frying pan. He shook his head, smiling a bit. “Why can't I have two hot guys fighting over me?” He shot Steve a serious sort of look. “That was a joke: I really don't envy you.”

Steve shoved both hands back through his hair. “I don't know what to _do_ , Sam. I had no idea Bucky felt like that about me—which, according to Brock, means I'm really, really dense.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” Sam commented, “I didn't know either. I mean—I may have had a few suspicions, but none of us is a mind-reader.”

Steve let out a shaky breath. “Bucky apparently decided he and I wouldn't work because I wanted kids. It's what he said, that he knew I wanted kids.”

“Did you?” Sam piled another slice of French toast onto the platter. “Do you?”

“Well...yeah?” Steve frowned a bit. “I'm going to be a sire now whether I like it or not—and I—I'm very happy. About that.” He'd been extremely happy for a few moments, anyway. “But Bucky—” Steve shook his head, running a shaky hand back through his hair. He grimaced, swallowing painfully. “Brock's the one who's life has been entirely destroyed by all this, but _Bucky's_ the one who's angry at me!” He shook his head again, grimacing. “I don't know if he'll talk to me again.”

“I've always thought,” Sam said, moving the platter of French toast to the table, “that relationships are complicated and confusing enough, even without any alpha or omega stuff added in.” Shaking his head, he added a dish of butter and then a bottle of syrup to the table. “Steve.” He put his hand on Steve's shoulder. “I believe you're doing the right thing by doing what you can to support Brock.”

Steve ducked his head a bit. He knew it was right, of course, but it still helped to hear Sam say it. “Thank you.”

“And Bucky...” Sam continued, giving Steve's shoulder a squeeze. “Well, he's been your friend since you were kids. Give him some time; let him sort out his issues.” He sighed, taking the other seat at the table. “Right now he's had a bit of a shock, and he's probably feeling threatened—which, incidentally, is also very likely true of Brock.”

Steve frowned as he served three slices of French toast onto his plate. “You think they feel threatened by each other?”

Sam nodded. “It's natural—especially for Brock. Brock _needs_ you right now; you're his best chance at basic survival when he's physically vulnerable. It's in his best interests to keep you happy, to keep you close—and he's probably got a lot of instincts yelling at him. Specifically about you.”

Steve nodded as he poured syrup over his French toast. “He does. He has to take a hormone treatment because the pregnancy is high risk, and the side-effects of that are apparently just making him more moody and, I guess, 'omega-like'.”

Sam nodded. “How's he handling that? And, I guess, how are you handling it?”

Steve shrugged. “Well enough, I suppose. He needs a lot of physical affection and reassurance—but I really don't mind giving him that.” He ducked his head, blushing a bit. “It's kind of nice, actually.”

Sam chuckled. “Yeah, that's the 'alpha' in you, isn't it? You like to feel needed, to feel important.”

Steve rolled his eyes, but what he said was, “I guess.” Sam wasn't wrong: Steve always felt terrible if there was a problem he couldn't solve, someone hurt or threatened he couldn't protect. And maybe he felt a little lost if he didn't have problems to solve or others to protect. He took a bite of French toast. He offered Sam a grin. “Wow, this is really great.”

“French toast is actually pretty simple,” Sam replied, poking at the food on his own plate. “Pretty easy to get right.”

“I'll have to try making it sometime.” Steve looked down at his plate, pushing a piece of it through the syrup. “I kinda need to get better at cooking.”

“ _Everyone_ should learn to cook,” Sam insisted. “Not only for the sake of others, but for their own sake.”

Steve shrugged, grimacing a bit. “It just never came naturally to me.”

Sam nudged him with his knee under the table. “You worry about it too much. It doesn't have to be perfect.”

Steve rolled his eyes as he took another bite. “Yeah, I know—because it never _is_. I have to—” He sighed. “I content myself with things turning out okay.”

“And that's fine,” Sam said, taking a bite of his own food. “As long as you can eat it, you did okay.” He frowned, twisting and looking back at the fridge. “And I forgot to get us anything to drink.”

“I'll get it,” Steve said, standing up. “I should have done that when I set the table.” He pulled two glasses from the cupboard, set them on the table, then checked the fridge. Beside the jug of milk was a carton of orange juice. “I guess that makes the whole meal more complete,” he commented, bringing it to the table.

Sam laughed. “Yeah. Four whole food groups if you count the milk.” He shook his head. “Not sure there's enough in there for it to count.” He flashed Steve a wry grin. “There's _probably_ enough eggs for them to count, though.”

“Well,” Steve said as he reclaimed his seat, “you always say pancakes are a bunch of empty carbs, but they have eggs and milk too—and you put all that bran and wheatgerm and stuff in the flour...” He poured juice into both glasses, starting with Sam's. “Sometimes you even add fruit.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed, waving his fork in a small circle and then pointing it at Steve, “that's my attempt to elevate pancakes over the nutritional quality of cookies.”

“Some cookies have fruit in them,” Steve pointed out, taking another syrupy bite. As much as he liked pancakes—especially when Sam made them—he kind of always preferred French toast.

Sam kicked him in the ankle (it didn't hurt). He rolled his eyes, taking a sip of juice. “At least you eat cookies when I put raisins in them; Bucky always gets _offended_.”

“Maybe Bucky gets offended too easily,” Steve grumbled, eyes on his plate.

“Maybe,” Sam agreed, chuckling softly and nudging Steve a bit with his knee.

“I _like_ oatmeal raisin cookies,” Steve said. “At least when you make them.”

“I should give you my recipe,” Sam said, taking a bite and chewing it. “Baking recipes are easy, because you measure everything out, so it's hard to get it wrong so long as you follow the directions.”

Steve nodded. That would be a nice, healthy thing to have around for easy snacks. But did Brock even like oatmeal raisin cookies? Well, Steve could make them with chocolate chips instead—even Bucky liked them like that. “Yeah; email it to me or something.”

“Sure thing.” Sam took a sip of his juice.

“So...about Bucky...” Steve sighed. “He's apparently in love with me—I mean, he didn't exactly say so, but he...sort of implied it. Rather strongly.” Setting down his fork, he pressed his hands over his eyes. “And I honestly had no idea.”

“It sounds like he didn't want you to know,” Sam commented.

“Yeah, but.” Steve sighed again, picking up his fork but not doing anything with it. “If he didn't want me to know for all this time...why—why _now_?”

One side of Sam's lips curled up. “Think it'd be a bit more convenient for you if he'd just kept on hiding it? Essentially forever?”

Steve made a face. “I don't know. It's not—it's not like it would be a _problem_ , exactly. Brock's outright said he wants me to date other people! So, I mean...” He gestured helplessly. “I could actually date Bucky if that's what he wanted.”

Sam cut a piece off his French toast. He shot Steve a questioning look. “Does Bucky know that?”

“I—” Steve shook his head. “I guess not. He kind of started yelling and throwing around accusations, so it's not like I had a chance to explain anything like that.”

“Okay,” Sam said, shifting in his chair. “But what do _you_ want, Steve? Bucky's in love with you. Fine. But that doesn't mean you _owe_ him anything.”

“I owe Bucky a hell of a lot,” Steve countered, eyes on his plate. Probably his _life_ , more than once over.

“You don't owe him sex,” Sam replied, calm and unwavering. “You don't _ever_ owe anyone sex, no matter what.”

“Right.” Steve nodded, shifting a bit uncomfortably. “I know. Of course you're right; I know you're right.” His face twitched with a flicker of a grimace. “But...it's not like I'd _mind_? I know I haven't had a whole lot of sex in my life, but it's not because I think it's gross or because I don't find most people attractive. I guess it's just sort of how it's worked out.” His lips twisted unhappily. “Regardless of what most beta guys probably think, being an alpha doesn't mean a ton of people are constantly offering themselves up to get fucked by a knotting cock.” He shrugged. “I think it actually scares a lot of people.”

“Well,” Sam said, poking at his food with his fork, “to be honest, it scares the hell out of me.” He shrugged. “I wouldn't know what to do with it.”

Steve offered him a somewhat embarrassed smile. “You know what to do with a cock, but the alpha one's not only too big but too complicated?”

“Exactly!” Sitting back, Sam shook his head. “So honestly, I don't envy you. I mean, I know I'm supposed to, being a beta guy and all...”

Steve laughed. “Hell, _I_ don't envy me.” He poked at his food. “Supposedly, most alphas have way more sex than I do, though.”

Sam shrugged. “A lot of alphas are a lot pushier than you are—which isn't a good thing, obviously.” He took a sip of his juice, flashing Steve a grin. “And then there're the ones who just outright _lie_.”

Steve nodded, returning Sam's grin. “No doubt.”

Sam took a couple bites of food in silence. Then, pushing a piece of French toast through his syrup, he said, “When it comes to sex, Steve, you don't ever have to go along with anything just to make another person happy—though, of course you _can_ if you want to.” He chuckled, smile looking a touch embarrassed. “I used to love giving Riley blowjobs.” Sam didn't talk about Riley much. Not since the week of the funeral. Steve had always thought maybe it was too painful for him, but here Sam was, talking about Riley with a smile on his face. “He never quite understood that, because he didn't exactly like reciprocating as much—he would, but he wasn't too excited about it. He had all these rules, like I had to have _just_ showered. But I was honestly eager to get him in my mouth—whenever, wherever. Didn't bother me if he was sweaty or anything like that.” He laughed. “I'd get hair or even lint in my mouth and it wouldn't phase me. It wasn't so much that I enjoy sucking on things; I just _really_ loved making him feel good. I think I might have enjoyed giving blowjobs more than I enjoyed receiving them. Which—” He nudged Steve's foot with his own. “—would probably seem strange to you if you knew what a blowjob felt like.”

Steve offered him a sort of soft yet wry smile. “Just one of the 'wonderful' things about being an alpha.”

Sam grinned, looking down at his food and poking at it. “Yeah. You know,” he added, going back to eating, “if it makes you feel any better—other than Riley, who I'll admit I had a lot of sex with, I haven't really had much sex. At all.”

One side of Steve's lips curled up. Stabbing a piece of French toast, he held it up. “I'm not sure why that would make me 'feel better'.”

Sam shrugged. “Yeah, me neither. People in general are a little too obsessed with sex—but especially with who's having more of it.”

Steve was quiet for a bit as he finished the last of his French toast. Maybe Steve was guilty of that himself to a certain extent. He had just had a sort of argument with Brock about how 'unfair' it'd be for Steve to have sex while Brock couldn't. Maybe... Maybe it didn't have to be fair. The thought sat uncomfortably in Steve's gut. But maybe it was something he should consider.

o0o

“Hey,” Brock said, looking up from the sink. He was washing dishes and he looked tired.

Brow furrowing with concern, Steve pulled off his shoes. “You don't need to do that. I can wash dishes.” They should really get a dishwasher in their new place. Especially with a baby to take care of, they wouldn't really have time to wash everything by hand all the time.

Brock sighed, turning an unimpressed look on Steve. He set a plate in the drain rack. “The baby's not just going to 'fall out' because I'm standing up.”

“I know,” Steve said, padding into the kitchen. “But you're supposed to be taking it easy, right?” From down the hallway, the washer switched into the spin cycle. Steve frowned. “You're doing laundry too?”

Brock blew out a frustrated breath. “I have to do _something_ , okay?” He made a face, pulling the plug and rinsing his hands off under the tap. “I woke up horny as hell, but I can't jerk off—so I got up and tried to find something to distract myself.”

“I'm sorry,” Steve said, leaning back against the counter and gripping the edges with his hands. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Nothing I can think of,” Brock said, drying his hands on a towel. Then he shot Steve a bit of disgusted look. “Well, you could shower so you're not filling the whole place with the _extremely_ strong smell of virile alpha.”

“Oh.” Steve stepped away from the counter. “Sorry. I—I'll do that.”

Maybe, after his shower, it would be best if Steve found something else to do out of the apartment for a bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on characters and canon:  
> Riley is of course Sam's army buddy, mentioned in TWS.


	9. Chapter 9

“Hey,” Natasha said, sitting down across from Steve, a tall paper cup in her hands. She offered Steve a smile. “How's it going?”

“Well,” Steve admitted, moving his own cup a bit back and fourth on the table—they were in a somewhat secluded corner of the tiny coffee shop, and though it was busy on the Saturday afternoon, the buzz of the other customers' conversations actually helped keep Steve and Natasha's own conversation private. Steve ducked his head, grimacing a bit. “I suppose I've been a lot better.”

Natasha hummed, pulling the lid off her cup and stirring it with a narrow wooden stick. “You said you needed some advice.”

Steve nodded. “I got some from Sam—hell, I even got some from Fury.” He shook his head, smiling. He honestly had a _great_ boss. It was rare to find an employer who honestly cared about their employees rather than just the money they could make. “But I guess...” He sighed, expression sobering. “I need advice from someone who has kids.”

“Oh.” Natasha's chair creaked a bit as she leaned forward. She flicked her bright red hair back over her shoulder. “Well, I suppose I have more than most—what do you need to know?”

Steve chewed on the inside of his lip. He sighed. “Well, I guess I don't really know what I need to know.” He offered her a kind of wry, bashful smile. “But...well, I'm going to need to know, because...Brock and I are having a baby.”

“Brock.” Natasha stared, expression blank. “The guy we all thought was a beta—or are you talking about some other 'Brock'?”

Steve took a sip of his still too-hot coffee, making a face. “Brock, the guy we all know and thought was a beta—turns out he...wasn't. Last weekend, he went into heat at the cabin—he didn't expect to; it was his first heat and his doctors had always said he never would.”

Natasha nodded slowly. “That must have been something of a shock.”

Steve nodded, humming in agreement as he took another sip of coffee. “For both of us.”

“For sure.” Natasha tapped her glossy dark brown—and perfectly manicured—nails against the outside of her cup. She pressed her lips together. “So you—both you and Brock—have had some unexpected changes.”

Steve nodded. He took another sip of coffee, shifting a little in his chair. “He—he can't sleep when I'm not there, so he's moving in with me for now.”

Natasha nodded. “Laura was like that for about the first trimester of her first pregnancy—but it was a bit easier for us, because she could sleep pretty well most of the time if Clint was there even if I wasn't; she just couldn't do it _alone_.”

Steve took a sip of coffee. “That—that must have made things a bit easier.”

Natasha smirked. “Having Clint around has made _so many_ things easier—honestly, I don't know who decided the perfect combination was an alpha with an omega; a group of three like we have really seems to work better.” Steve fiddled a bit with the cardboard sleeve around his cup. Natasha kicked him under the table. “You don't have to get all uncomfortable.” She rolled her eyes. “Nothing we're doing is illegal or even immoral.”

“I'm not,” Steve insisted. “And I know.” He scrubbed his fingers back through his hair. “Sorry; I'm just—I've had a really tough week.”

Natasha shrugged one shoulder, tilting her head to one side. “So, more than just...one of your friends who you thought was a beta suddenly going into heat and then you accidentally getting him pregnant and him moving in with you because he literally can't function now without you around?”

“He has to quit his job,” Steve said, letting out a breath through his nose. “And when Bucky found out about—everything—he got mad, yelled at both me and Brock, and stormed out.”

Natasha levelled her gaze at him over her cup. “Ouch.”

Steve shrugged, swallowing. “Brock said Bucky's in love with me—and Bucky didn't deny it. He just—he said he knew I wanted kids...”

“Wow.” Natasha pursed her lips. “You know, however Bucky reacts to things, you're not responsible for him or his actions.”

Steve made a face. She was right of course, but... “We've always been close.”

Nodding, Natasha took a swallow of her coffee. “You've always had boundary issues.”

“Like you and Clint?” Steve shot back, even though it really wasn't fair.

Natasha shot him a glare, but then she just took another sip of her coffee and said, “Yeah. A bit like that.” She took a slow swallow of her coffee. “Want me to talk to Bucky? See if I can make him see sense?”

Steve shook his head. “I think—he just needs some time.” He shrugged. “That's what Sam said, anyway.”

Natasha nodded. “Sam's pretty smart about these things.” One side of her mouth quirked up. “I'm just kind of impatient.”

Steve nodded thoughtfully. He tilted his head to one side, frowning a bit. “Do you think it would help? You talking to Bucky.” Bucky might need someone to talk to, but maybe it would be better if that someone who wasn't doing so on Steve's behalf.

Natasha shrugged. “It would help me feel better.” She wrinkled her nose, dropping her gaze to her coffee. “I don't like it when my friends fight.”

Steve stared at his own coffee for a bit. Finally he said, “Getting back to the subject of advice...and kids...” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “How do you find time—for friends, for this?” He gestured between them. Because all confusing feelings of 'love' notwithstanding, that must be the main reason Bucky felt threatened: the worry Steve wouldn't have time for him. It was something he'd already brought up—even before he knew anything about the pregnancy.

“Well,” Natasha said, shooting him a look over the top of her cup, “Clint actually helps out there a lot too—between the three of us, taking care of the kids isn't really that hard. Usually. It takes some juggling sometimes, but we do okay.” Steve nodded. “But even with just one other person,” Natasha continued, “communication is important. You need to know things like each other's work schedules and who's taking which kids where and when.” She paused, considering Steve for a moment. “I guess most of that doesn't really apply when you have just one kid—but we had two right from the start.”

Steve nodded. “But I'm sure communication is important, regardless.”

Natasha nodded as well. She stirred her coffee a bit. “The thing most people probably won't tell you is that having kids _takes_ time. It seems obvious, but you might not quite realize it anyway.” She tapped her nails against the outside of her cup. “Everyone, regardless of how they choose to spend them, only gets twenty-four hours in a day, seven days in a week. And we all use those hours somehow. Work, school, reading, video games, hanging out with friends, scrapbooking, baking cookies, whatever. When you have kids, they eat into those hours— _especially_ when they're little and need _constant_ care and supervision.” Her face twitched in a slight grimace. “So, I'm sorry to tell you this, but no matter how great you are at time-management, having a kid is going to mean you have less time for everything else.” She tossed her head to one side, looking down at her coffee. “Unless you spend absolutely _no_ time with your kid, but that's probably not the best way to do things.”

“Right, yeah.” Steve took a sip of his coffee. “I want to spend a _lot_ of time with my kid. That's sort of—the main draw for me: holding the baby, playing with it, teaching it stuff as it gets older...”

Natasha nodded. Reaching across the table, she gave Steve's wrist a quick squeeze. “You are going to be a _great_ parent, Steve.”

“Well,” Steve said, offering her a hopeful smile, “I sure hope so.”

Natasha sat back in her chair. “If you need specific advice about anything from diapers to feeding, I can tell you what I know from my experience—or Clint or Laura can.” She shrugged one shoulder. “Laura knows the most about the feeding side of things.”

Steve took a slow swallow of his coffee. “Things are a bit different for a male omega, though, right?”

Natasha shrugged. “A bit. Because their breasts only swell up while they're lactating, but while they _are_ lactating, things work pretty much the same: milk is produced based primarily on demand, and sudden weaning can lead to severe depression.”

Steve bit the inside of his cheek. “It seems everything to do with reproduction can lead to depression.”

“True,” Natasha admitted, nodding. “That's a downside of being an omega.” She took a sip of her coffee, flicking one eyebrow. “You and I just get a risk of depression that usually isn't linked to anything in particular.”

Steve nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. Exactly _why_ did anyone want to be an alpha? Or an omega for that matter. Betas just got it easy. Or at least, easi _er_.

“We should get Brock in contact with Laura,” Natasha suggested, nudging him with her foot under the table. “She's quite a few months ahead of him, but they could still be sort of...pregnancy buddies.”

Steve nodded slowly. That was a good idea. “I don't think he has any omega friends.”

“I'll plan something,” Natasha said decidedly, “invite the two of you over for dinner—Laura can pretty much take it from there.”

Steve nodded, offering Natasha a grateful half-smile. “Thanks, Nat.” She honestly always seemed to know what she was doing even—or maybe especially—while Steve was floundering. “You're the best.”

o0o

“Steve?” Brock's voice came, small and a little unsure, from the living room.

“Yeah?” Steve replied as he closed the door and tugged off his shoes. The apartment smelled of Brock—worried and a little distressed. Steve's brows drew together. “Are you okay?”

Brock looked up from where he was curled at one end of the couch as Steve padded into the room. His features and scent both registered relief. “'M fine.” He looked away. “Just started to feel a bit lonely, I guess.”

Leaning over, Steve threaded his fingers into Brock's hair and kissed his forehead. “You coulda called or texted me.” Damn it; he'd specifically spent time out of the apartment because that's what Brock wanted—Steve away, not smelling the place up and making him horny. But of course he'd managed to spend _too much_ time away.

Making a face, Brock shrugged. “Didn't wanna bug you.”

Steve sat down next to him, close enough that they were touching. “Brock, I would rather you send me a text every minute than for you to sit here feeling lonely and distressed.”

Brock shook his head, making a disgusted sound. “I'm not used to asking for—for help.” His lips twisted with distaste. “Or affection.”

“This is important for your health,” Steve argued softly. He pressed a barely-there kiss to Brock's temple and slid his hand over Brock's still-flat stomach. “And the baby's.”

Brock let out a shaky breath. He closed his eyes. “Yeah, I know. I would—I would have called you if it got bad.”

Steve slid an arm around Brock, pulling him against his side. Brock let out a soft, barely audible groan. “How about this?” Steve suggested. “You call or text me before it gets bad.” He gave Brock's shoulder a tiny shake. “Deal?”

Brock grumbled, turning his head to shove his face into Steve's chest. “Fine.” He let out a sharp breath, warm and damp through Steve's shirt. “We'll try it that way.” He twisted around so he was leaning back against Steve's chest instead. He traced vague patterns on Steve's arms where they encircled him. “I'm not going to be good at this.”

“That's okay,” Steve assured him, pressing his face into Brock's hair, letting it tickle his skin as his breath moved it. “You don't have to be perfect.” He chuckled, soft and a little pained. “Obviously, I'm not either.”

Brock snorted, shaking his head a bit. “You're about as close as any human gets.”

“I think that's probably a pretty sad commentary on humanity,” Steve said. Brock shorted again, sounding more genuinely amused. He relaxed further against Steve. He smelled content. It was a beautiful relief after all the distress and frustration and little swirling hints of guilt. “You smell amazing,” Steve told him, shifting a bit so he could press his nose into Brock's neck.

“Oh?” Brock shifted a bit too, letting Steve have greater access to his neck. “What do I smell like?”

“Pregnant,” Steve replied, making Brock laugh a bit, “healthy, and content. It's...a soothing combination.”

Brock hummed. “Well, glad you like it.” He flashed Steve a lopsided grin. “I'll try to stay as pregnant, healthy, and content as possible.”

Feeling a great swell of affection for Brock, Steve tightened his hold on him and pressed a kiss to the side of his neck. He'd lick it too, but...that might be a bit too sexual. They needed to avoid that sort of thing for the time being. “You are _amazing_ ,” Steve told him.

Brock snorted. “At least one person thinks so.” Then he twisted around a bit so he could look at Steve's face. “You really think so? Or are you just saying that to—to make me feel better?”

“I really think that,” Steve assured him. “This isn't easy for you—hell, this is actually really, really, stupidly _hard_ for you. But you're—well, you're _handling_ it.”

“I—” Brock looked away, clearing this throat. “I couldn't do it without you.”

“No one should have to do this alone, Brock.” Steve shook his head, the thought swirling uncomfortably in his gut—beta women manged it sometimes, but even that was a great injustice. _No one_ should _have_ to endure a pregnancy alone. Everyone deserved some sort of support. From _someone_. “So don't think that means you're somehow weak or whatever.”

Brock made a grumpy sound, settling against Steve. “I _am_ weak, though; I can't even stay pregnant without the stupid shots from the doctor.”

“Maybe you could,” Steve said, “but that wasn't a risk either of us wanted to take.” It wasn't about what was possible or impossible; it was about percentages—and giving the baby the best chance. “And since when did the ability to get or stay pregnant have anything to do with how 'strong' a person is?”

“But that's what an omega's _for_ ,” Brock grumbled. “That's the entire _point_.”

Steve couldn't help laughing. Well, it was either that or get _angry_ , and laughing felt like the lesser evil. “Brock,” he said finally, “you've said a lot of pretty sexist things, but that by far is the _most_ sexist thing I've ever heard from you.” He laughed a bit more, shaking his head. “An omega is a _person_ , Brock, just like anyone. A person who may or may not want to have children at some point. They're not just a walking uterus and pair of ovaries any more than an alpha is a walking cock and balls.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Brock grumbled, sliding down so his head rested on Steve's thigh. “Though...I've met a few alphas who might as well have been walking cocks with balls.”

Steve laughed, running his fingers through Brock's hair. “I'm sure they had...hidden depths.”

“Yeah,” Brock snarked, “hidden under seventy layers concrete, behind a ten-foot razor wire fence, and inside a bomb-proof safe.”

Steve laughed again, but then he frowned in confusion and asked, “So the concrete is above the razor wire fence? Or...?”

Brock punched him in the stomach. “Don't analyze my analogy.”

“Okay,” Steve relented, tugging a bit at Brock's hair. “Sorry.”

“Holy fuck,” Brock breathed, eyes going wide. “Do that again.”

“Do...what?” Steve asked, confused. He chewed on his lip, brows pulling together. “Pull your hair?”

“Yeah,” Brock breathed. Steve gave it a little tug and Brock's eyes squeezed shut and he sunk his teeth into his bottom lip. “Okay, wait.” Brock's face screwed up. “ _Don't_ actually do it again—it'll—” He let out a vaguely frustrated breath. “—probably make me horny.”

“Sorry.” Sliding his fingers out of Brock's hair, Steve pet it apologetically.

“Fuck,” Brock breathed. “Don't be sorry.”

Steve brushed his fingers across the olive skin of Brock's brow. “Something that could come in useful later?”

Brock chuckled. “Sure, yeah.” He offered Steve a soft half-smile. “Gods, I love you touching me.”

Steve smiled back, soft and warm and filled with fondness. “And I love touching you—so I don't see a problem.”

Brock wrinkled his nose then turned on his side, cheek resting against Steve's thigh, facing away from him. “I guess I don't know—what I'm supposed to be now. I had a pretty good handle on being a beta, I think. Everyone bought it, anyway.” He sighed. “Being a beta meant almost no one expecting anything from me. And I _liked_ that. But...if I have to be an omega, well, _everyone_ will expect things from me.” He snorted. “Bucky's already mad at me for not using suppressants, because as an omega, I'd be _expected_ to use those—unless I wanted to go into heat and get pregnant. But people are going to expect us to bond. Or expect each of us to eventually bond with other people.” He sighed. “And of course, right now, I have to be so careful: eat right, try to get enough sleep, stay hydrated, take my vitamins. I didn't have to do _any_ of that before.” He sniffed, rubbing roughly at his nose. “I could come home from work each day and down three beers before bedtime. I could go out and get completely hammered. Hell, I coulda smoked if I wanted.” He shifted a bit, face twitching with annoyance. “I could jerk off five times on a Saturday if I was bored and had nothing better to do.”

“Once your doctor gives the okay, you can do that last one again,” Steve offered.

“Right.” Brock made a disgusted sound. “Great.” He rolled onto his back again, looking up into Steve's face, eyes flashing challenge. “But I won't really want to, because I'll want _you_ to get me off, since that feels better.”

Steve shrugged. “So I'll get you off.”

“Yeah, but...” Brock's eyes skated away. “I don't even know how to get _you_ off. I've never been with an alpha before you—just betas and the odd omega.”

“It's _fine_ ,” Steve tired. It really, honestly, didn't _matter_.

But Brock flinched a bit, mouth forming a decidedly unhappy line. “But if I'm going to be an omega, I need to be _better at this_. At—” He gestured, rather jerkily, between them. “At making you happy. At being pregnant. At—” He closed his eyes. “Gods, Steve, I need to be a _dam_.”

“Brock,” Steve said quietly, hands moving soothingly over Brock's arms, “why try to 'be' anything? Just be _you_.”

“I don't know who the fuck that is!” Brock snarled, sitting up suddenly. He hunched in on himself. His shoulders twitched a bit and he wrapped his arms across his middle. “I don't even know what I _like_ —I only know what I did to pretend to be a beta, and that was mostly pretending to be a beta pretending to be an _alpha_ , because that's what most beta guys wish they were.”

“You don't like fishing?” Steve asked, confused.

“Fishing's great,” Brock said, rubbing at his nose and sighing. “But I can't do that every day, can I?”

Steve chewed on his bottom lip. “I suppose you could if you lived on a lake.”

Brock shook his head. “The country's great for weekends and such, but—” He turned so he could look at Steve, sitting with his back to the back of the couch again. “Even if I could afford it, I can't live in the ass-end of nowhere when I need to see a doctor once a week.” Twisting his lips unhappily, he looked away. “And besides, I like being within walking distance of a decent grocery store.”

Steve nodded. That really was a convenient perk to living in the city. At least, the part of the city where they lived. “Well, what do you do for fun? Other than fishing.”

“Drinking,” Brock said, offering him an unapologetic, crooked grin. “And sex.”

Steve bumped his knee against Brock's. “Thought you said the sex wasn't very good.”

Brock wrinkled his nose. “Even bad sex can be fun, especially if you don't know what you're missing—and there's 'the thrill of the hunt', or whatever.” He shook his head. “But that's not an 'omega' thing to want—omegas are supposed to like _being hunted_.”

Steve laughed softly, rubbing at his forehead. “I really think it would help if you didn't worry so much about what anyone's 'supposed' to like.” Brock narrowed his eyes at him, but Steve insisted, “I'm serious, Brock; if you like 'the thrill of the hunt', then that's what _you_ like and there's nothing wrong with that.”

Brock shrugged. “Maybe I just liked it because it's what beta guys think alpha guys like. So it made me feel like I was doing the whole 'beta' thing right.”

“That's...” Steve's brow furrowed. “That's really confusing.”

Brock laughed, squeezing his eyes shut and letting his head rest on the back of the couch. “Welcome to my entire life so far.”

o0o

“Okay, so I do like video games,” Brock said later that day as they were going through more stuff at Brock's apartment so they could take it over to Steve's. Scratching at his chest through his shirt, he shrugged. “Apparently.”

“Well,” Steve said, looking over the stacks upon stacks of clamshell cases Brock had in, on, and around his entertainment centre, “there certainly are a lot of them.”

Brock wrinkled his nose a bit as he scanned down some of the titles. “We don't have to keep them all—I think I really needed to go through these and get rid of the ones I never play.”

“We'll take them all for now,” Steve decided, “and you can go through them at my place.” The less time Brock spent in this apartment, the better. And besides, he needed something to do while Steve was at work all day. “Okay?”

Brock nodded. “Sure.”

Steve laughed, shifting from a crouch to sitting on his butt. He ran his finger down the edge of a stack of games. “How many 'football' games do you need?”

Brock shrugged, offering Steve a sort of wry half-smile. “All of the _newest_ ones, apparently.”

o0o

Steve was still in bed at eight thirty on Sunday morning, enjoying the pleasant not-quite-yet-awake fuzziness and the warmth of Brock curled against his side when a knock came at his apartment door. Frowning, Steve slid carefully out of bed. He was wearing a pair of drawstring pants instead of just underwear—mostly because he figured that might be less arousing and ultimately less frustrating for Brock—so he went straight to the door to look through the peep hole. Instead of the building manager or an annoyed neighbour, it was Bucky. Steve pulled the door open, blinking at him in confusion. “Bucky?”

Bucky held out a foil-covered pan in his hands. “I made you guys these as a sort of 'sorry I was an asshole' offering.”

“Oh.” Steve took the pan—it was warm in his hands. “Thanks.” He stepped back from the door. “Please—come in.” Bucky's face twitched with worry, but he stepped across the threshold and closed the door behind him. Steve set the pan on the counter in the kitchen then turned to Bucky. “You didn't buzz in.”

“Nah, someone was moving in...or out—wasn't really clear,” Bucky explained. “Anyway, they had the door propped open, so I just walked in.” Fresh worry flashed across his face and he rubbed at the back of his neck. “That's okay, isn't it?”

Steve nodded. He leaned against the counter, gripping it loosely at his sides with both hands. “Yeah, it's fine.”

Bucky rocked back and forth a bit between the balls of his feet and his heels, shoving one hand into his pocket. “I know usually I climb up, but I figured I'd try behaving like a civilized human for once. Also—” He gestured to the pan he'd brought. “I had that, which would have made climbing a bit more challenging.”

“Yeah.” Steve smiled, warm but still nervous. He gestured awkwardly to the pan. “It's something for breakfast?”

Bucky nodded, a nervous smile flashing across his features as he rubbed at the back of his neck again. “Yeah, I mean, go ahead and take a look,” he said, gesturing to the pan again. “I hope it's okay.”

Steve pulled back the foil to reveal fresh, beautiful sticky buns with pecans (and of course, no raisins). The foil had been sealed well enough to keep in the sweet smell of cinnamon which wafted out to greet Steve's nose. “Wow, Buck.” Steve grinned at him. “Guess I'd better brush my teeth so I can try one before they get cold.”

“Hey,” Bucky began, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck again, “I don't have to stick around...”

“Bucky.” Steve took his hand, catching his eye with a pleading look in his own. “Please—please stay.” Bucky didn't say anything, just nodded. Steve grinned, relieved and grateful. Giving Bucky's hand a squeeze, he let it go then stepped back. “Have a seat—I'll be right back.”

On his way to the bathroom, he rapped quietly on the mostly open door of his bedroom, calling, “Brock?”

Brock rolled over, peering at him from under sleepy eyelids. “What?”

“There's sticky buns if you're hungry,” Steve explained. “Bucky brought them.”

Brock grunted, rolling onto his stomach then pushing up on his arms, stretching his neck and shoulders a bit. “Yeah, I'll get up.” Collapsing onto his belly once more, he blinked at Steve. “Tired, though.”

“I'm gonna brush my teeth and stuff,” Steve said, pointing towards the bathroom. “I'll let you know when I'm done.”

As Steve brushed his teeth, he frowned, thinking. They'd got to bed at a decent hour the previous night and Brock had fallen asleep before Steve—unless he was just really good at faking sleep. Maybe he'd overdone it a bit, especially with the moving stuff from his own apartment and then trying to put most of it away when they got back. Brock wasn't used to asking for help, but Steve needed to get better at offering it—or maybe just giving it.

When Steve joined Bucky at the table, Bucky served him up a sticky bun—he'd set the table with three small plates and a fork next to each. He'd also put out glasses and the carton of citrus blend juice from the fridge. “Wow, Buck.” Steve offered him a fond smile. “You didn't have to do all this.”

Looking embarrassed, Bucky shrugged, mumbling, “It's nothing.”

“Sure doesn't look—or smell—like nothing,” Steve teased, pulling off a piece from the outside of the bun and sticking it in his mouth. He groaned. “Oh, my God,” he said, once he'd swallowed and could talk without being gross. “These are amazing, Buck.” Bucky ducked his head, not quite hiding an embarrassed smile. They were sweet and buttery and had just the right amount of cinnamon—they tasted like Christmas.

Brock shuffled into the kitchen, sliding into the chair on the other side of Steve. He eyed the food as Bucky served him a sticky bun as well. “Is this, like, an apology breakfast? Because, if so, _apology accepted_.”

“You haven't even tasted it,” Bucky pointed out in a low mutter, eyes on the surface of the table.

Brock shrugged. “I've yet to meet a sticky bun I didn't like.”

Bucky's face brightened with a relieved smile. “I didn't even know what you liked—knew Steve liked them, but...” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Also, I dunno if it's enough protein for being pregnant...”

Brock shrugged, mouth full. Swallowing, he gestured to the bun on his plate and said, “There's nuts and stuff,” but he glanced at Steve as if for confirmation.

“Pretty sure it's fine,” Steve agreed. Maybe they should ask Brock's doctor for more detailed nutritional guidelines—he was taking a one a day vitamin supplement, but surely most things were better to get from actual food. Or so Sam was always saying. And the sticky buns, after all, were _probably_ healthier than most pancakes. “I mean, so long as you don't eat it three meals a day.”

Bucky laughed softly. “Pretty sure that wouldn't be good for anybody.”

When Steve reached for his second bun, he noticed Bucky had barely eaten a third of his first. He frowned. “They really are great, Buck,” Steve said, flashing him a smile.

Bucky smiled back, but it was sad and a little hesitant. “I'm glad you like them so much.”

“What he said,” Brock said around a mouthful of food, pointing to Steve with his fork.

Bucky laughed softly, ducking his head. “I'm glad you like them too, Brock.” After a moment, he sighed, setting down his fork. “Look, I really do owe both of you an apology—for how I acted, and the things I said which were completely out of line.”

“Don't worry about it,” Brock said, waving a hand. He took a sip of his juice. “I wasn't kidding when I said 'apology accepted'.” Bucky nodded a little jerkily and said nothing.

“Buck,” Steve said, “I just don't want you to be mad at me—so if you're not, then—” His throat tried to close over and he swallowed thickly. “—I'm glad.”

Clearing his throat, Brock shifted in his chair. “Maybe _I_ owe _you_ an apology, Bucky.” He grimaced. “I really didn't mean to go into heat and I certainly didn't mean to get pregnant.”

Steve shook his head, laying a reassuring hand on Brock's wrist. “Brock, none of that was your fault.”

Brock shrugged, blinking a bit. “Stupid me for believing my doctors, hey? But—” His eyes flicked between Steve and Bucky. “I really didn't mean to fuck up your lives or the thing you two had together.”

“We were _friends_ ,” Bucky said. His eyes cut to Steve and his voice was rougher when he added, “We still are.”

Brock shook his head. “I think you two were a bit more than that.” He shifted in his chair. “And you still can be—don't let me be some sort of wedge between you two.” He ducked his head a bit, poking at his sticky bun with his fork. “Steve and I aren't exclusive—we're not bonded; we're not 'in love'.” He shrugged. “We're just...fuck buddies who happen to be having a kid together.”

Bucky stared at him for a bit, looking vaguely ill. Then he said, “You don't even care about him.”

Brock rolled his eyes, setting down his fork. “I fucking _do_. That's not even _remotely_ what I just said!”

“Guys, please!” Steve said, putting one hand on either of their arms as though trying to keep them apart even though there was a table between them.

Sitting back in his chair, Bucky ran a hand over his mouth. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry.” He held up his hands, palms out. “I—” He shook his head. “I think—maybe I should go.” He pushed back his chair, but Steve caught him by the arm.

“Bucky, _please_ ,” Steve begged.

“I just—” Bucky grimaced. He pointed to the sliding door to the balcony. “I need some air.”

Steve let go of his arm and watched him walk outside and lean against the railing. His chest clenched painfully.

Brock nudged him pointedly with his foot under the table. “Go fucking _talk_ to him.”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed, pushing back his own chair to stand up. He dropped a quick kiss to the top of Brock's hair. “Thanks.”

Steve followed Bucky out onto the balcony and slid the door closed behind them. Leaning on the railing next to Bucky, he asked, “Can we talk?”

Bucky blew out a breath, looking down at the parking lot. “I know it doesn't really look like it, but I _am_ trying. I'm just—not very good at it.”

“I can tell you're trying,” Steve told him. After the way their last meeting had ended, he honestly hadn't been sure Bucky would ever speak to him again, and here he was showing up on a Sunday morning with food. Delicious food he'd made himself. _Earlier_ on that Sunday morning.

“I talked to Bruce,” Bucky admitted. “And Pepper.” Pepper was Bucky's boss over at Stark Industries. Not his immediate supervisor—that was Fitz, head of the engineering department and endearingly awkward—but, as CEO, Pepper Potts was everyone's ultimate boss. (And anything but awkward.) Bucky shrugged. “I went into work yesterday, even though I wasn't scheduled—we can always do overtime if we've got something we're working on. Anyway, Pepper encouraged me about the sticky buns—she said if I ever pissed her off, food would be a wonderful way back into her good graces.”

Steve nodded. “You can tell her they worked—I'm very impressed.”

“Yeah, but—” Bucky shook his head, grimacing. His shoulders hunched. “I can't even hold a civil conversation with you two.”

“Maybe you need more time,” Steve suggested. “To—process things.” The blow up had been less than two days previous, and apparently Bucky'd spent most of the between time asking for help with how to fix everything.

Bucky nodded jerkily, letting out a shuddering breath. “Yeah, maybe.” His features twitched with pain. “You're my best friend, Steve; I should be _better_ than this!”

Steve looked at him, just _hurting_ for him. “Can—can I give you a hug?”

Bucky let out a little broken laugh, nodded, and stood up, turning to face Steve. “Sure.”

Steve pulled him tight against his chest. He smoothed one hand up and down Bucky's back and slid the other into the dark, smooth curls at the back of Bucky's neck. What could he say? Would anything help? For example, Bucky _was_ beautiful, but maybe it wasn't the right time to tell him that. (Bucky'd probably just make a joke about Steve wanting to draw him—and it wouldn't even be inaccurate, exactly; Steve always wanted to draw Bucky.) And as much as Steve desperately didn't want to lose Bucky, saying so felt a touch selfish. Probably because it _was_ selfish.

“I didn't know you were lonely,” Bucky murmured against Steve's shoulder. “I'm sorry.”

“'S all right,” Steve assured him, gently petting his hair. “I don't think _I_ knew.”

“Yeah, but.” Bucky pulled back enough to look into Steve's face. He bit his lip. “I'm supposed to take care of you.”

Steve's brow furrowed and his lips pulled into an unhappy line. “Bucky, you don't owe me—”

“I'm supposed to be your best friend,” Bucky insisted. “If I can't give you the kind of affection you need, I should help you find someone who can!” He shook his head, stepping entirely out of Steve's grasp. “I've been far too selfish to do that.” He grimaced, gesturing to Steve with one hand. “If anything, I've actually been undermining your chances.” He ran a shaky hand through his hair. “I monopolize your time, show up uninvited at your home, go all 'bad cop' on you ever time you show the slightest serious interest in anyone—” He shook his head. He grimaced. “You didn't have 'too high of standards'; _I_ did!” He shoved a shaky had back through his hair again, glancing guiltily at Steve out of the corner of his eye. “If you knew what was good for you,” he muttered, “you'd tell me to fuck right off, because I—” He shook his head. “I'm not a good friend, Steve.”

“I don't _care_ ,” Steve countered, anger making his voice hard. He wanted to reach for Bucky again, wanted to hug him again—wanted to make this _better_. But his hands hung uselessly at his sides. “Bucky, I'd rather have you—no matter how 'bad' a friend you are.”

“That's sweet,” Bucky said, sniffing a bit and laughing softly, shaking his head as he leaned against the railing. “Stupid, but real sweet.”

“Yeah, well.” Steve rolled his shoulders. “You've always said I'm stupid.”

Bucky offered him a sad sort of smile. “You're actually only stupid about certain things, Steve. Mostly, you're far too brave and kind.”

The metal railing creaked in grumpy protest as Steve leaned his forearms against it. He looked sideways at Bucky, expression soft. “I suppose if I have to have a fatal fall, being 'too brave and kind' isn't so bad.”

Bucky nodded, a hint of a wry smile flickering on his face as he shoved a hand back though his glossy curls. “Sure beats being jealous and selfish, anyway.”

Steve's phone buzzed in his pocket, distracting him from whatever retort he might have formed to that. It was Nat:

_So this is pretty short notice, but if you and Brock don't have other plans, we'd love it if you could come to dinner this evening. Otherwise, I guess it will have to wait until Saturday, since you work all week and it takes quite a while to drive out here._

It only took about an hour and a half to two hours, depending on traffic and such, but with the return trip and everything it was still a bit too far to be reasonable on a work night. Steve glanced over at Bucky. “It's Nat,” he explained.

“Well, if you need to talk...” Bucky gestured, giving a sort of 'go ahead' signal. “I can just...” He gestured vaguely back inside the apartment. He grimaced a bit. “I promise I'll behave.”

Steve clapped him on the bicep, offering a small smile. “I appreciate that.” Bucky just looked pained in response, but he turned and pulled the sliding door open and stepped inside. He was still...processing things; he still needed time. Letting out a calming breath, Steve typed back to Natasha:

_We don't have any plans. Just hanging out right now, having some breakfast Bucky brought over._

After hitting 'send', Steve glanced through the window, noting Brock still sitting at the table and Bucky sprawled on the couch. Brock, catching his gaze, flashed him a smile. Steve smiled back, soft and warm.

Natasha's text popped up on his screen:

_So you guys have worked out the problems? That's great! :)_

Steve grimaced a bit, ducking his head and scratching at the back of it. He typed back:

_Maybe not quite. But I think we're getting there._

Steve glanced inside again. Brock was bent over his phone which was lying on the table. Bucky had his phone too, his entire attention focused on the small screen. Well, at least they weren't fighting. Or just...glaring at each other, or whatever.

Natasha's reply popped up:

_If Bucky isn't doing anything later, bring him too. Could be good for all of you._

Steve wet his lips thoughtfully. That wasn't a bad idea. Bucky and Clint always got along really well. And it would be a good opportunity to show Bucky that he wasn't excluded. That Steve very much was willing to spend time with him. Nodding a bit, Steve sent back:

_I'll ask him and see what he says._

Nat replied almost immediately:

_Just let me know._

Steve stepped into the apartment, closing the sliding door behind him. He looked at Bucky and Brock. “Natasha and Laura...and Clint would like the three of us to join them for dinner at their place this evening.”

Brock looked from Steve to Bucky then back to Steve. “The three of us, hey?” Steve nodded. He looked at Bucky.

Bucky shrugged. He stretched a bit, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I didn't exactly have plans...” He glanced over at Brock. “I—” He chewed on his lip.

Brock leaned his forearms on the table. “You should come—it would give us a chance to get to know each other better.”

Bucky ducked his head, a wry smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, that—that might help.”

It really might. Steve held up his phone. “So...? Do I tell them 'yes'?”

Brock nodded. “I'm up for it.”

Bucky shrugged. “Sure.”

“Do they know I'm pregnant?” Brock asked suddenly.

“Uh, Natasha does,” Steve said, brow furrowed slightly with worry. “That's okay, right?”

Brock nodded. “Gotta tell everyone eventually.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bit of a head's up (and a heartfelt apology!) that from here on out updates will very likely not be posted quite as regularly. So far as writing goes, this story is currently my priority (in that it's actually all I'm actually actively working on!), but you know...life happens and all that. Your comments (and bookmarks and kudos and follows) are so very appreciated, and please also feel free to come yell at me about this fic on [Tumblr](http://gastfyr.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Notes on characters and canon:  
> 'Fitz' is Leo Fitz from AoS.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently I basically had this chapter ready to post since...I'm not even sure how long ago. (I just didn't quite realize it until the other day.) Sincerest apologies.

Dinner was scheduled for shortly after six, so they needed to be ready to leave shortly after four.

“Are we taking my truck?” Brock asked from where he was tucked into one corner of the couch.

Steve pursed his lips. He hadn't quite thought of that.

Bucky, sprawled now in the easy chair, shrugged—as well as one could shrug while also sprawling. “Neither Steve nor I have a vehicle.” He looked at Steve. “You wanna ask Sam if we can use his?”

Steve shook his head. “Not really.” He looked a bit sheepish because he really hadn't thought this 'short notice' thing through. Sam would probably still say 'yes', but... “I like to give him a bit more warning than this.”

Brock tipped his head to one side. “Truck technically has three seat belts—and it's not really that long of a drive—right?”

“It's a little under two hours,” Steve said.

Brock shrugged. “Suppose it depends on how cosy we want to be.”

A taxi would be prohibitively expensive, as would renting a car... There was one way this could work out okay, though. Steve looked at Brock. “You'll drive?”

Brock narrowed his eyes at him. “Of course I will; it's my truck.”

Steve grinned. If Brock drove, Steve would sit in the middle with Bucky on the other side of him. So it would be impossible for them to fight—at least, for them to fight physically. But they were probably pretty unlikely to shout at each other over him either. And Brock would have to keep his eyes on the road too. “That should work out perfectly.”

o0o

“These are yours?” Bucky asked Brock, crouching down to peek into one of the boxes next to the TV. Brock's X-Box and PlayStation were there too, though not actually hooked up yet. Steve was in the kitchen, making them all sandwiches for lunch, but he was keeping both his ears open and an eye on the two of them. If he was paranoid about their ability to get along, maybe it was understandable at this point. (And maybe...maybe this 'getting to know each other better' thing would be wiser in smaller doses.)

Brock, still seated on the couch, nodded. “Yeah.” He shoved his hand back through his hair. “I need to go through them and decide which ones I'm actually going to keep.”

Bucky chuckled, sitting down next to the box. He shot Brock a bit of a grin. “Steve giving you a limit?”

Brock shook his head before Steve could formulate his own protest. “Nope; I just have a whole lot of games I never play anymore.”

“Well,” Bucky said, looking over the contents of the box, “you seem to be quite the fan of shooters.”

Brock shrugged. “Maybe it keeps me from taking out my violent urges on anyone in real life.”

“You're an omega,” Bucky muttered. “What possible 'violent urges' could _you_ have?” Steve cleared his throat pointedly, and Bucky looked up, rolling his eyes. “What?”

Steve gave him an unimpressed look. “Sexism.”

Bucky rolled his eyes again, sticking out his chin a little. “ _Biology_.”

Shaking his head, Steve went back to grinding pepper over the open sandwiches. “Just like _biology_ dictated that I'd be so much better at shooting a real gun than you are—oh, _wait_.”

“Hey,” Bucky protested. “Betas can be good at things, even better than their alpha or omega counterparts—it comes from being the 'baseline' designation. We sort of...encompass the extremes. Sometimes. And besides.” Bucky shrugged. “Shooting a gun isn't exactly the most 'alpha' thing...you lot are more about clubs and simple axes and whatnot.”

Brock snorted, sounding amused. “That's what I've been _telling_ him!” He shook his head. “I don't think he takes me seriously.”

“You're right,” Steve said not looking up from where he was closing each sandwich in turn and cutting it in half. “I mean, I mostly just hope you're joking.” Steve set the plates on the table.

Bucky jumped up. “I'll get us all something to drink.”

“Better make it water,” Steve said, “since we already had juice with breakfast.”

Brock rolled his eyes, sighing theatrically as he pushed himself slowly to his feet. “Can't drink beer, and _apparently_ —” He shot Steve a glare. “—I'm supposed to limit _juice_ now too.”

“Too much juice isn't good for anyone,” Steve pointed out reasonably as he took his seat. “It fills you up so you don't have room for more nutritional foods—and it's mostly sugar, anyway.”

“I _like_ 'mostly sugar',” Brock grumbled as he took a seat next to Steve, wrinkling his nose. “And says who?”

“Sam, for one,” Steve replied. Nutrition wasn't exactly Sam's specialization as a paramedic, but it was the same thing Steve's dam had always said about juice.

“And Bruce,” Bucky added, setting a tall glass of water in front of each of them. “And Jane. And Sharon.”

“You can have some milk if you want,” Steve offered as Bucky took his seat on Steve's other side. Too much milk wasn't good for anyone either, but it was probably, overall, more healthy than juice.

But Brock just wrinkled his nose again, looking even more unhappy with _that_ idea. “Milk is only good for one thing: pouring on cereal.”

Steve chuckled. “I tend to agree with that, actually. But then—I was kind of mildly allergic as a kid, so I guess I never really developed a taste for it.”

“Apparently most adults are at least mildly allergic—or intolerant, or whatever—to milk,” Bucky commented, taking a sip of his water. “Bruce was telling me about it. And we are the only species that commonly drinks any kind of milk past weaning age.” He shrugged. “But anyway, _yogurt_ is supposed to be super healthy, and milk itself is useful for baking.”

“Right.” Steve nodded, picking up half of his sandwich. “I've been meaning to try a bit more baking—Sam says it's easier than most other cooking.”

“I guess it is,” Bucky agreed, nodding. “Though, it's also more complicated—I mean, you need all these measuring cups and spoons and stuff.”

“Wow,” Brock said around a mouthful of sandwich. “This sandwich is really great.”

“Thanks,” Steve said, beaming a bit at the praise. The sandwiches weren't all that impressive, actually—it was probably more that he'd just put a bit more into them than the sort of 'lazy' sandwich a person might make for themselves. They had deli ham, regular old cheddar cheese, leaf lettuce, tomatoes, sliced dill pickles, mayo, mustard, and of course fresh ground pepper with a sprinkle of sea salt. Sam had successfully converted Steve to the fresh ground pepper and sea salt thing—the guy was sort of on a mission to convert the whole world. “I guess I can make an okay sandwich sometimes.”

Bucky chuckled, throwing a bit of lettuce at Steve so it bounced off his chin. “Only because I taught you.”

“Sam gave me a few additional tips,” Steve said, “but, yes, most of my sandwich-making prowess is due to _your_ tireless tutelage.”

Laughing, Brock ducked his head over his plate for a moment. “Wow.” He shook his head, still laughing. “'Tireless...' whatever the hell you just said—that's, like, a tongue-twister.”

“He could have just said 'teaching',” Bucky said in a confiding tone, leaning across the table a bit. “Because that's what it means and all—but he likes to be a show-off sometimes.”

Brock smirked, taking a big bite of his sandwich and chewing slowly. Finally he shot Bucky a conspiratorial look and said, “So he tries to impress you too?”

Bucky looked consideringly at Steve. Then he nodded. “Every now and then, it even works.”

Steve rolled his eyes a bit, but he didn't comment, just continued to eat his sandwich in silence. They were—somehow—getting along. If they needed to make fun of him to do that, he could handle it.

He was the big, strong alpha, after all.

o0o

“Uncle Steve! Uncle Bucky!” Nicole, Lila, and Lewis greeted them in a flurry of squeals and footsteps before Steve even managed to get all the way out of the truck.

“Hey, you little rascals!” Bucky hunkered down to grin at them all. He ruffled Lila's curls. “Is your om or ta around?”

“Om's in the kitchen,” Nicole said. Then she frowned, tugging at one of her red braids. “Who's that?” She pointed at Brock who'd just made his way around from the other side of the truck.

“That's Brock,” Bucky explained. “He's our friend, but I guess you haven't met him yet.”

Clint approached from the direction of the barn, nodding to Steve, Bucky, and Brock. “Howdy.”

Steve grinned, taking Brock's hand when Brock stood near him. Brock might not have felt hesitant or unsure in an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar—and clearly unthreatening—children, but why take a chance? Steve nodded to Clint. “Howdy yourself.”

Wading through the small gaggle of children, Clint held out his hand to Brock. Brock let go of Steve's hand to shake it. “I know we've met,” Clint said, “but it's your first time visiting my home—so, welcome.”

Brock nodded. “Thanks. It's—a real nice place.”

“It has its advantages,” Clint said, turning towards the house. “Come inside—Laura's excited to meet you, but I couldn't drag her out of the kitchen for the life of me.”

“Does she cook then?” Brock asked, taking Steve's hand again as they headed toward the house.

“She's an _excellent_ cook,” Clint replied with a grin. “Which helps, because I'm absolute sh— _garbage_ at it.”

“Nat cooks too,” Bucky put in, “but Laura's the real culinary artist.” He had Lila hanging off one hand and Lewis hanging off the other, but he didn't seem to mind. In fact, he looked like he was enjoying it.

Brock nudged Steve in the side, saying in an undertone, “Guess you're not the only alpha with only so-so cooking skills.”

Steve snorted softly, leaning in closer to reply in the same volume, “Hey, I seem to remember you really enjoying the lunch I made you today.” Brock shot him a grin but said nothing in response.

As they walked through the front door, two lanky brown-haired boys came tumbling down the stairs together, somehow managing to stay on their feet at the bottom and grinning as though proud of the accomplishment. “Hi, Uncle Steve; hi, Uncle Bucky,” they said in unison.

Then one of them—Cooper or Callum—frowned in Brock's direction. “That must be Brock.”

His brother elbowed him, insisting, “That's rude!” Turning to Brock he said, “Hi, I'm Cooper; you must be Brock.” Cooper—the one with the blue shirt. So it was Callum in the brown shirt.

Brock nodded, shifting his weight a bit. “That's me.”

Callum was still frowning at Brock. “He's...pregnant.”

Brock let out a breath, tightening his grip on Steve's hand. “That too.”

Clint chuckled softly. “Normally, we'd wait for people to tell us that.”

Callum rolled his eyes. “But I can _smell_ it!”

“Still,” Steve said, “Clint's right; it's kind of rude to just tell someone they smell pregnant. Unless they _ask_ you how they smell.”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Cooper said, elbowing his twin.

Callum shoved him back, but then turned a contrite expression on Brock. “Sorry.”

Brock shook his head. “Don't worry about it.”

“If that's the worst mistake you ever make as an alpha,” Steve assured him, you'll be doing pretty darn good.” Callum brightened, and Cooper punched him, so he punched him back.

Clint rolled his eyes. “Knock it off before I tell your dam. Speaking of, let's all go say hi.” He led the way through the house to the kitchen.

Laura looked up from a bowl of salad greens to offer her guests a friendly smile. “Hi, you guys! I've got almost everything ready.”

Closing the oven door, Natasha turned to greet the guests as well. “Yeah, meat's almost done too.”

“Natasha's been a great help,” Laura beamed.

Natasha flicked one eyebrow, tipping her head a bit to one side. “Since it was my idea to do this on such short notice, by rights I should have done it all.”

Laura laughed, touching her arm. “You couldn't have, sweetie.”

Natasha smiled at her, rubbing her back. “That's true, but you don't always have to rub it in.” At Steve's side, Brock chuckled quietly.

“So,” Clint said cheerfully, clapping his hands, “we've got some introductions to do here.” He grinned, turning to Brock. “Brock, this is Laura,” he explained, turning to indicate her, “who is a lovely cook and an even lovelier person. And her five rambunctious children.” He pointed to each in turn. “Cooper and Callum who are almost thirteen, Nicole who is about eight and a half, and Lila and Lewis who are four.” Turning to Laura again, he gestured to her rounded belly. “I'm not sure if we've settled on a name for the new one yet.”

Natasha shook her head. “We haven't.”

“Okay then.” Clint smiled around the rather crowded kitchen. “Everyone, this—” He gestured to Brock with both hands. “—is Brock.”

Brock gave a little wave. “Hi.” He cleared his throat. “I love your house, by the way.”

Natasha and Laura both smiled, broad and bright, saying, “Thank you,” in near-unison.

“So how about you kids wash your hands and get the table set?” Clint suggested. “I'll take our guests for a little walk outside, because it's a bit crowded in here right now.”

“I wanna go outside!” Lewis whined.

“Me too!” Lila insisted.

Clint looked at the older three. “Anyone else wanna get in on this whining thing?”

Cooper and Callum shook their heads. Nicole looked uncertain for a moment then said, “No, Uncle Clint.”

Clint laughed. “Okay, well I'll just take the two little ones out so they don't get stepped on.” Bending down, he looked sternly at the two of them. “But you still have to wash up before we eat.”

Lila made a face, but Lewis just nodded solemnly.

Clint took one with each hand and led them out the back door, but as soon as they were outside they slipped free and went running ahead through the grass. Clint shook his head, turning to Steve, Brock, and Bucky. “Sometimes I wonder why Tasha and Laura let me anywhere near kids—obviously I have no idea what I'm doing.”

“Looks like you're doing fine,” Steve commented.

Clint shook his head. “Both Tasha and Laura are way more strict than I am.”

“'Strict' isn't always a good thing,” Brock put in.

“Oh, I know.” Clint grinned. “But I basically let them get away with anything.”

Bucky shrugged. “Maybe it works out to have three adults around who all do things a bit differently—maybe they learn more that way.”

“Maybe,” Clint allowed. “And I guess—they learn this from me.” He held up one hand, signing something too fast for Steve to catch the meaning.

“Sign language?” Brock asked.

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “Clint's mostly deaf.”

“I've got hearing aids,” Clint said, gesturing towards one ear. “So I hear pretty well, actually. Most of the time.” He shrugged. “I can lipread too, though that's always tricky.”

“Sign language is supposed to be really good for kids,” Steve commented. “I think I read that somewhere.” Or maybe Peggy or Colleen had mentioned it. They did some simple signs like 'please' and 'more' with Patrick.

“Yeah?” Clint said, turning to look at him as they walked.

“Yeah, uh—” Steve scratched a bit at his forehead. “I don't really remember why it's supposed to be good, though.”

“Well, it's good for kids to be exposed to other languages,” Bucky put in. “From a young age. And sign language would count.”

“Right.” Steve nodded. But that didn't sound like the only benefit he'd heard of—there was supposed to be something specific to signs.

Brock tightened his grip of Steve's hand, but when he spoke, it was directed to Clint: “Taking care of kids is confusing, huh?”

Clint laughed. “Tell me about it. But—you know, so long as they're _alive_ , and not dealing drugs or whatever, I guess you know you're doing okay.”

“This one...is probably going to be my only one,” Brock admitted, gesturing awkwardly to his midsection. “I—wasn't supposed to be able to have kids at all.” He grimaced a bit, rubbing at the back of his neck. “So I guess I want to do it right.”

“I think we always want to do it right,” Clint replied. “But we do our best.” He shrugged. “Nobody's perfect.” Turning suddenly and frowning, Clint called out, “Hey! You kids stay where I can see you!”

Lila and Lewis turned to look at him, then came running back. Lila grabbed Steve's hand and Lewis grabbed Bucky's. Steve smiled down at Lila.

They were truly lovely children, and he enjoyed them so much. The thing was, he'd never really noticed but... _Bucky_ loved them too. And it wasn't just Bucky trying to show off to impress Steve or anything like that. He'd always been the same with Natasha's kids.

Come to think of it, he'd been great with Patrick as well.

By Bucky's own criteria—were Steve to turn it around and use it on him—Bucky wanted children too.

o0o

The kids had all left the table to various other parts of the house or yard—Cooper and Callum promising to watch out for their younger siblings—so it was just the six adults left at the table with cups of tea and the remains of a delightful peach and blackberry pie.

“That pie is _amazing_ ,” Steve said, finally pushing his plate away when nothing remained but small smears of sticky purple juice and melted ice cream. (He'd lick them off, but that would be kinda rude.) He felt pleasantly overfull, and even though none of the food had been his own doing, it had still been really nice to see Brock eat so well.

“I'd love to make a pie like that,” Bucky commented, laughing softly as he set his fork down on his plate, “but blackberries are usually six or seven dollars just for a small box.”

“Oh, isn't it a crime?” Laura's brow furrowed and she sat forward in her chair. “We get them for _free_ —they grow around here like weeds, so we pick a bunch each summer and freeze them. Or turn them into jam.” She tilted her head to one side, smiling. “Or pies.”

“They don't last very long fresh,” Natasha commented. “I think that's what drives the prices up in stores.” Her brow furrowed. “It's been a while since I looked at prices, but I'm pretty sure the frozen kind would be a lot cheaper.”

Bucky nodded, turning his teacup in his hands. “That makes sense.”

The wood of Brock's chair creaked as he shifted. “How—how far along are you?” he asked Laura. His fork clinked against the edge of the plate as he pushed it aside. On the plate, a crumbled fragment of crust remained.

“Just over six months,” Laura replied. “So we're in the third trimester now.”

Brock nodded. He took a sip of his tea. “I'm, uh, just in the first.” He glanced around then dropped his gaze. “Which I guess is obvious.”

“Well,” Laura replied, “not everyone shows at the same time—I knew a beta woman who was _eight months_ before she really looked pregnant with her first.”

Brock's lips twisted thoughtfully. “When's it normal to start showing?”

Laura's brow furrowed slightly. “Around four months, I think?”

“Yeah, I suppose I should ask my doctor.” Brock turned his teacup in his hands.

“You could always Google it,” Clint suggested, shifting a bit in his chair.

“Or that,” Brock agreed. “But I need to see my doctor every week anyway, so I suppose I should make the visits count.”

“You need to go in every week?” Laura asked, brow furrowing slightly.

Brock made a face. “I'm 'high-risk'.” He wiggled the fingers of one hand. “I need to take a hormone treatment...thing.”

Laura nodded. “Oh, okay. I knew a woman, a beta, who had to take something like that.”

“One thing you can do at the appointments,” Natasha suggested, taking a sip of her tea, “in a few weeks, anyway, is listen to the baby's heartbeat.”

“Yeah,” Laura agreed, turning a bright smile on Brock. “That's always exciting.”

Brock nodded, smiling a bit hesitantly. He looked sideways at Steve. “You, uh, looking forward to that?”

Steve nodded. “Absolutely.” He couldn't help grinning a bit. It would be a very clear sign that the baby was okay. Then his brow furrowed. “Hey, did you remember to take your vitamin today?”

Brock gave him an unimpressed look, setting his teacup down on the table. “ _Yes_ ; I take them at breakfast, and I haven't missed one yet.” Steve winced slightly—he hadn't meant to annoy Brock. “I took it while you were out on the balcony,” Brock added in a grumble.

“Ah, isn't that sweet?” Natasha cooed, eyes flashing amusement over the rim of her teacup. “Steve's doing that 'alpha' thing.”

Laura laughed, holding her hand up in front of her mouth for a bit before she could calm down enough to speak. “Natasha was the _worst_ when I was pregnant the first time. Especially after we found out it was twins! I swear she'd ask me three times a day if I'd remembered my vitamins.”

Clint nodded. “She did; I can confirm that, because I was here and saw it all—and even heard some of it.” He smirked, taking a slow sip of his tea.

Brock smiled a little, looking sideways at Steve then back at Laura, Clint, and Natasha. “I guess I'm getting off easy here.”

Steve offered him an apologetic smile. He'd only worried, really, because it was hardly a 'normal' day—quite a departure from their hesitantly-established routine.

Bucky laughed a little awkwardly. “I guess I feel like the odd one out in this conversation—I don't have kids.”

“I don't have kids either,” Clint said, spreading his hands. A smudge of a grin tugged at the corners of his eyes and mouth. “Not officially, anyway.”

“You still know more about raising them than I do,” Steve countered.

“Yeah, same here,” Brock muttered.

“Okay, so this is probably a really inappropriate question...” Bucky ducked his head. “Maybe I shouldn't ask.”

Clint narrowed his eyes at him. “That depends on what you were going to ask.”

Bucky made a face. He took a sip of his tea. “You don't have to answer...”

“We know,” Natasha said, looking bored. She kicked him under the table. “But if you _don't_ ask now, we're all going to assume the worst.”

Bucky winced, drawing back a bit from Natasha. He glanced at Clint. “Are any are the kids yours? Like...biologically, I mean.” Clint and Laura both laughed, and Natasha sort of smiled into her tea. Bucky was visibly relieved for not having offended anyone too greatly.

“We don't actually know for sure,” Laura said. “We've never done any tests. But—Cooper and Callum are both alphas, which would be rarer with a beta sire than with an alpha. Not impossible, of course. Nicole we're pretty sure is Natasha's, because of her red hair.” Clint nodded, and Laura continued, “And Lila and Lewis are both omegas, which also suggests a greater likelihood of an alpha sire rather than a beta.” Laura shrugged. “So far, Nicole's the only beta, and she's also the one who looks the most like Natasha.”

“I'm pretty sure they're all Tasha's,” Clint said, taking a sip of his tea and cradling the cup in both hands. “I don't think my poor beta seed has any chance when competing with an alpha's.”

“That's actually suggested by science,” Laura pointed out. “Alpha sperm swim faster.”

Clint shrugged. “And I'm okay with that.” He offered Natasha a fond expression. “Tasha's genes are better than mine, anyway.”

Natasha ruffled his hair with one hand. “We don't have any problem with your genes, darling.”

Clint smiled. “Thanks, dear.”

“We really don't,” Laura agreed, reaching across the table to take his hand. Clint smiled at her. Turning to Brock, Laura asked, “Brock, do you have many omega friends?”

Brock shook his head. “I don't have _any_ omega friends.” He shrugged, grimacing a bit. “Most of my friends are beta guys. But my doctor thinks it would help if I had someone to talk to who's going through a pregnancy or has gone through one, but...” He shrugged again.

Laura grinned. “Well, you can talk to _me_! I've gone through it three times, and I'm going through it again. Here.” She slid her phone across the table to Brock. “Give me your number.”

Brock smiled, looking somewhat abashed. “Yeah, I suppose.” He tapped his number into the open contacts form on her screen. “I guess...” He grimaced a bit. He slid the phone back. “I feel like it's different when you planned to get pregnant, though.”

Laura nodded. “It is, for sure. All of my pregnancies have, technically, been planned—but the first one was a bit earlier than we'd intended.”

Natasha nodded, taking a swallow of her tea. “They said, at the time, that Laura's suppressants would take at least four to six months to fully clear out of her system before she could go into heat.”

Clint snorted. “Turns out...that estimation was off by about four to six months.”

“Yeah,” Laura said, smiling wryly at the memory. “I went off the suppressants and went into heat a week later.” She grimaced a bit. “It...came as a shock for all of us.”

“It worked out okay,” Clint put in, taking a sip of his tea.

Natasha nodded. “I had to take time off work at a rather short notice.” She shrugged. “My employer was understanding, but still.” She tilted her head to one side, flicking her eyebrow.

“And I've never done well with hormonal birth control,” Laura added. "It messes with my head, or at least it did for the two weeks I actually tried it.” She grimaced. “So of course we'd been using condoms up to that point, but—”

“She couldn't stand the feel,” Natasha finished for her. “As soon as she was going into heat, she absolutely hated the feel of anything artificial.”

“It made my skin crawl,” Laura explained, wincing slightly. “And we wanted a baby anyway; that's why I'd gone off suppressants in the first place.”

“So we kind of all made a rather hasty decision,” Clint put in. He shrugged. “I wasn't being affected by the heat scent, of course, but I can never stand to see Laura suffer.” He offered her a soft smile.

“So...is that a thing?” Brock asked, leaning forward in his chair, a small frown drawing his brows together. “Heats can make an omega, uh, well, hate the feeling of artificial...things?”

“I guess so,” Laura replied. “I never asked my doctor about it, but I've heard other omegas express frustration and disgust about trying to use knotting dildos...”

Brock nodded. “Yeah, that—exactly. They gave me one at the clinic when I was in heat, but...I didn't even like holding it in my hand.” Wrinkling his nose, he shook his head. “If anything, when I tried to actually use it...I think it made me feel worse.” Reaching out, Steve took his hand, and Brock squeezed Steve's hand in return. Steve should never have tried to push about the dildo. (Brock hadn't said at the time that it was making it _worse_!)

Laura nodded, expression sympathetic. “Yeah, that's actually pretty common, I think. That reaction. At least to some degree.”

Brock sat back in his chair. “Huh.” He shook his head. “And here I thought I was just being...” He shook his head again and his chair creaked as he shifted slightly. “I dunno...picky.”

“Personally,” Natasha said, “I believe an omega in heat has every right to be picky.”

Clint chuckled. “And I agree.”

“Yeah.” Steve looked at Brock. He swallowed against the tangle of guilt in his throat. “Absolutely.”

“Well, you know,” Clint said after a pause, “I think knotting dildos were invented by betas.” He shrugged. “I mean, most stuff is—since we are the biggest portion of the population and all. And it's a good idea, and I'm sure they helps a lot of omegas—but it's not a perfect solution.” He shrugged again. “Neither are suppressants, which of course were also invented by betas.”

Natasha nodded. “We've come a long way as a species, but in general the medical and scientific community doesn't really care what omegas think or how they feel.”

Laura nodded, eyes narrowing. “Too often they treat us like children—for example, when I told my doctor I'd gone into heat one week after stopping my suppressants, he said I must have been skipping days. Or taking some other drug that interfered with them. He flat out refused to believe I'd been taking them properly, even when Natasha said she knew I'd been doing it right. He just sort of laughed indulgently and said he knew how suppressants worked.”

Natasha nodded, her own eyes hard. “He was a beta—how would he know?”

Clint laughed. “No offence taken, for the record.”

Bucky held up his hands. “Hey, same here—I honestly have no idea about suppressants.”

Steve had been frowning through this entire story. “You got a new doctor, right?”

Laura laughed. “Oh, absolutely. And that one is honestly lucky Nat didn't punch him.” She took Natasha's hand, flashing a soft smile in her direction.

“He's lucky I didn't _track him down_ and punch him,” Clint muttered. Steve would kind of like to get in that line himself. If he didn't have an omega of his own who needed him _not_ in jail. He sighed quietly.

“And another thing,” Laura added. “That same doctor was the one who'd prescribed the birth control—the stuff that messed with my head. He should have told me it was a risk, but he acted like there weren't any serious possible side-effects. I've since learned that hormonal birth control can sometimes have catastrophic emotional and psychological effects, especially for omegas but also for female betas. But that's not something most doctors will bother telling patients before they prescribe it.”

“That's terrible,” Steve said softly. The guy sounded like a shit doctor all around, but...apparently there were quite a few like him. At least _Brock_ seemed to have an okay doctor. He'd only met her the once, but she _seemed_ okay. (Aside from completely missing the possibility of Brock going into heat. Or getting pregnant. But very likely she wasn't the first or only doctor Brock'd had in his life—there were probably quite a few to blame there for missing those things.)

“I don't think it shouldn't be available, of course,” Laura clarified, pushing a lock of brown hair behind her ear. “It is very helpful to a lot of people. I just think people need to have the information so they can make _informed_ decisions.”

“Absolutely,” Bucky said. He pressed his lips together, turning his teacup where it sat on the table.

“And,” Clint added, “doctors need to be aware themselves, so they can properly monitor their patients after they've prescribed something like that—so they can watch for the signs that the patient is reacting badly. Not everyone _does_ , obviously. In fact, most people are totally fine with it. But it's kind of like how some people are allergic to penicillin: you don't just give it to everyone because it's saved so many lives. You have to make adjustments for individuals who aren't in that 'majority'.”

“Being an omega is complicated,” Bucky commented, brushing his hair off his forehead.

“And that's just the thing!” Clint said. “It _is_ complicated, and betas in general don't want to bother learning about it, much less having to deal with any of it.” He shook his head. “I think it's a real missed opportunity when they separate the kids for sex ed in school, because they never do teach the betas properly about issues that affect omegas or alphas.” He shrugged. “So we _can't_ smell when an omega's going into heat or when an alpha's angry. So?” He spread his hands. “I mean, I can't _hear_ most things, but that doesn't mean I got out of learning about, well, everything to do with hearing and sound and all that.”

“It all comes down to who's in the majority,” Natasha commented.

“At my and Steve's school, we all did sex ed together,” Bucky said. “Which was fine with me.” He shrugged. “Not sure why it would be a problem, honestly.”

Clint made a face. “I think it's mostly about money. Schools are _always_ under-funded, so they do whatever way costs the least. Though sometimes it's because parents lobby for things to be a certain way.”

Steve frowned. “So some parents want the kids separated?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Natasha replied. “Parents can be really illogical and paranoid, and they often will want _everyone_ separated: so six separate classes.”

“Which is obviously just not going to happen,” Clint put in. “It's not financially feasible, even at large schools, because there's always less alphas and omegas.”

“So I think often,” Laura added, “the schools see putting the kids into two or three groups as a sort of compromise.”

“Which would be _fine_ ,” Steve said, “if they actually taught the same curriculum to each group.” If they taught the same material to all students, it wouldn't matter how they divided them up.

“Exactly!” Clint said. Natasha and Laura nodded. Bucky was nodding too.

“I guess I never had much of an opinion,” Brock admitted. He rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck. “By the time I was supposed to take sex ed, the doctors had already told me I'd probably never go into heat, so I didn't really pay that much attention to any of it.” He looked sheepish. “Which, of course I regretted when I finally did go into heat.” He turned a warm, lopsided grin on Steve. “I was real lucky to have someone there who _had_ paid attention in school.” Steve blushed, shifting a bit uncomfortably in his chair.

“We could do a lot better with sex education in general,” Clint said, saving Steve from having to come up with some response other than just squeezing Brock's hand. “There's so much misinformation going around, not only among teenagers but among full-grown adults.” He shook his head. “It's really sad.”

“Like that thing where alphas will die sooner if they don't have enough sex?” Brock asked.

Natasha snorted. “Yeah, like that.”

“You ever have an alpha use that line on you?” Bucky asked, looking at Brock. But then he ducked his head, holding up a hand. “Sorry, sorry—none of my business.”

But Brock just grunted, shifting in his chair a bit, and said, “Yeah, actually. I mean, I don't know if he was serious, because he thought I was a beta and all, but...” He shrugged. “I just told him I was doing my part, you know?” He grinned, crooked and wicked. “Ridding the world of guys like him.” Bucky laughed, loud and surprised—and joined by everyone else at the table. Brock grinned, ducking his head a bit.

“I had this one alpha guy in tenth grade,” Natasha put in, “tell me the two of us should fuck to increase both our lifespans.” She shrugged. “I told him I knew a few ways to decrease his.” She shot Brock a bit of a grin. “I suppose it wasn't quite as good as your line.”

Brock rolled his shoulders. “I've never had anyone accuse me of being _smart_...but I do get that whole 'smart mouth' comment from time to time.” He shrugged, an unrepentant smile tugging at his lips. “Guess it's better than nothing.”

Steve tightened his grip on Brock's hand, beaming a bit. This was as happy as he'd seen Brock since...before the thimbleberries. It was amazing. (It smelled amazing. He wanted to pull Brock snugly against him and bury his face in the warm curve of Brock's throat.) Brock was pregnant and _happy_.

Maybe... Maybe Steve _hadn't_ completely ruined his life.

o0o

Nicole, Lila, and Lewis all hugged Bucky at once, chorusing, “Bye, Uncle Bucky!”

“Bye, sweethearts,” Bucky said, hugging them back tightly. “You be good and have fun at school.”

“You look sleepy,” Laura commented sympathetically, laying a gentle hand on Brock's arm. He'd been wavering a bit for a while, blinking and giving himself little periodic shakes back to alertness. “It might not look like it from the outside, but your body is working hard—so take care of yourself.”

Brock nodded. He offered her a bit of a smile. “Thanks.” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “I'll try.”

Laura gave him another pat on the arm, then stepped back, letting Clint put his arm around her from one side and Natasha from the other.

Cooper and Callum took turns shaking Steve's hand, followed by Nicole, Lila, and Lewis who all hung off it at once, grinning up at him.

“See you guys later,” Steve said, looking down at them. They were all growing up so fast. He really didn't visit often enough, did he?

“I hope you'll come visit again,” Natasha said.

“Yeah,” Clint agreed. “I know city life is busy and all, but don't be strangers.”

“You guys could come visit us sometime,” Bucky suggested. His brow furrowed. “Though, I guess maybe you wouldn't fit in my tiny apartment!” He laughed, ducking his head. Glancing up again, he said, “We could do a restaurant.”

“Or the science centre,” Steve put in. That would be educational, good for the kids.

“Actually,” Bucky said, perking up, “I could probably get you all a tour of Stark Labs.”

“Give us a call,” Natasha said. “Or a text.”

“We'll work something out,” Clint added.

Brock was wavering again, leaning into Steve's side, so Steve tightened his grip on him and steered him out the door. Bucky followed, asking in an undertone, “Hey, you're not actually going to let him drive—?”

Brock made an indignant sound, but Steve shushed him. “You're falling asleep on your feet, Brock.” He held out his hand in front of Brock. “Give me the keys.”

Heaving a sigh, Brock fished them out of his pocket and dropped them into Steve's hand. He shoot Bucky a glare.

Bucky held up his hands. “Whoa.” He glanced quickly to Steve then back. “I didn't—”

“Brock,” Steve said, sighing and rolling his eyes a bit, “I know you're tired—that's sort of the point.” He steered Brock to the passenger side of the tuck and unlocked the door. He shot Bucky a look. “Maybe try a bit more tact.”

Bucky scratched at his forehead, his other hand shoved in his pocket. “Yeah, good idea.”

“Sorry,” Brock mumbled as Steve helped him up into the truck.

“It's okay,” Steve assured him. “It's been a long day.” Once he was sure Brock was settled safely in his seat, Steve turned to Bucky, catching him by the elbow. “It has been a long day,” he murmured. “And I'm proud of you.” He offered Bucky a soft smile. “I really am.”

Bucky flashed him an awkward smile in return. “I just—you have to take care of _him_.” He gestured towards the truck. “I shouldn't make things harder for you.”

“I'm supposed to take care of everyone, remember?” Steve offered him a hopeful half-smile. “Now get in,” Steve said, nodding towards the truck. Bucky nodded in agreement, and Steve walked around to the other side to climb in himself. “Everyone got their seat belts on?” Steve checked before putting it in gear.

“Yeah,” Brock mumbled. “I've seen how you drive.”

Bucky laughed softly, turning to look out the window.

Brock fell asleep against Steve before they were a quarter of the way home.

o0o

“That was nice,” Bucky commented as Steve pulled off the highway onto their exit. “Dinner—getting to visit with them all.” Steve nodded, humming in agreement as he kept his eyes on the road. Bucky cleared his throat. “So thank you for including me.”

Steve flashed Bucky a warm grin. “I'm glad you came.” Eyes back on the road he added, “It was Natasha's idea. To invite you.”

Bucky grinned. “She's a good friend.” He slumped, sliding down a bit in the seat. He glanced sideways at Steve. “Does she know about—my—uh, recent issues?”

“I talked to both her and Sam yesterday,” Steve admitted. He shot a worried glance sideways at Bucky. “I hope that's okay?”

Bucky waved a hand. “It's okay; you have to talk to people, you know? I talk to people, you talk to people... That's how things work.”

Steve nodded. “Yeah.” He gripped the steering wheel tighter. “I just—I didn't mean to gossip about you.”

Bucky shook his head. “It's not gossip, Steve. 'Gossip' would be, say, Pepper, talking to _her_ friends about stuff between me and you. And Brock.”

Brock stirred a bit, making vaguely grumpy 'waking up' noises and blinking. “What about me?”

“Nothing really,” Bucky told him. He rubbed at his chin. “I was just explaining to Steve about what 'gossip' means.”

Brock smirked a bit, yawning. “You gossiping about me?”

“Nope.” Bucky shook his head. “Was just using you as an example.”

Grunting, Brock rubbed at his face. “I feel so used.”

Bucky laughed, soft and surprised. He shook his head. “Okay then.” Steve smiled. Though Brock and Bucky had never exactly been close—more friends through Steve, actually, than anything else—it was nice to see them playfully bickering rather than simply straining to be civil. Bucky shifted in his seat, turning more towards the inside of the cab. “Hey, Brock?”

Brock turned his head a bit towards Bucky. “Yeah?”

Grimacing, Bucky rubbed a bit at the side of his neck. “I guess I never really understood how much it can suck to be an omega—and how much better the beta majority could be doing to make things more fair.” He let out a breath. “So I'm sorry I jumped to so many conclusions about you.” He shook his head, eyes downcast. “I was an ass.”

Brock wrinkled his nose, shifting a bit closer against Steve's side. “You kinda were, but—” He sighed. “It's not like mine is the most typical of cases; I can see why it looked bad. From your perspective.”

“But that's just it,” Bucky argued, fiddling with his thumbnail, “I shouldn't automatically assume everyone fits into what's 'typical'; I'm pretty sure that's the _definition_ of prejudice.” Sighing, he shoved a hand back through his hair. “And it shouldn't be your responsibility to worry about how things look from _my_ perspective—I'm pretty sure my perspective is one of the most lazy and generally ignorant perspectives.”

Brock shrugged. He said, sounding not so much resigned as excusing, “People are always going to jump to conclusions.”

Bucky shook his head. “Well, people shouldn't. I shouldn't. I shouldn't _ever_ —but especially not when it's my friends.” He looked, expression pained, between Steve and Brock. “I owed you—both of you—at the very _least_ the benefit of the doubt.”

“I appreciate that you're willing to reevaluate your judgement,” Steve said. A lot of people were far more stubborn, especially when they were obviously wrong.

“Yeah, well.” Bucky shook his head, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He turned to look out the window. “Don't get used to it.”

Steve chuckled. He glanced quickly over at Bucky then flicked his eyes back to the road. “Then maybe I appreciate this rare occurrence even more.”

“You know I'm kidding,” Bucky said, still looking out the window.

“I do,” Steve assured him. Bucky was actually one of the best people Steve knew for adjusting his opinions based on new information. It was probably one of the things that made him so good at his job, actually.

If he had a bit more trouble where his emotions were involved, well—Steve couldn't very well knock him for being human.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I actually now actually have a smartphone and therefore have a much better understanding of the smartphone interface, everyone's style of texting in this story has changed to something much more realistic. (I've yet to fix the texting in previous chapters.)

Just as Steve was leaving work on Monday, a text from Bucky popped up on his phone:

_Work this week's gonna be insane. Just a head's up. Long hours and exhausting etc. So if you don't hear from me that's why._

Steve winced a bit in sympathy. He was pretty lucky, actually, that his own job had very little in the way of overtime. And honestly not a whole lot of stress. As he was waiting for the bus, he texted back:

_Sorry to hear that. Still want me to text you at bedtime to remind you to brush your teeth? :P_

It wasn't like it was something he'd ever done every day, but it was something he did often enough to be annoying.

Bucky responded almost immediately with:

_:P_

And then:

_I can actually remember on my own_

And then:

_And I can remember to eat too_

Well, hopefully that was true. Bucky'd always been better at taking care of others than taking care of himself. But if he was going to be super busy and stressed, maybe annoying texts from Steve would just make things worse. The last thing Bucky needed was to feel guilty about not having the energy to reply.

Settling into his seat on the bus, Steve tapped the edge of his phone against his lips for a moment. Then he typed to Bucky:

_Think things will have calmed down by the weekend?_

After a moment, Bucky replied:

_Should have. Did you want to get together and hang out?_

And then:

_You and Brock and me could have lunch maybe._

Smiling, Steve typed out his reply:

_Sure. That sounds good._

Then:

_You thinking Saturday?_

Bucky replied back:

_Sure. Whatever works for you guys._

o0o

When Steve walked into his bedroom that evening, Brock looked up from his phone and said, “I've been texting with Laura.”

“Oh?” Pulling back the bedclothes, Steve slid into bed. “That's good.” He flashed Brock a smile. “You two really seemed to hit it off yesterday.”

Shifting his position against the headboard a bit, Brock nodded. “She's great. I mean, she's just...really _nice_ , you know?”

Steve grinned broader, settling on his side, facing Brock. “I do know.” She was so friendly and welcoming, so easy to get along with. She was sort of the 'perfect omega' if such a thing existed—she was the omega you'd put on the poster.

Brock's gaze dropped to his phone. “Anyway, she was asking if you and I had talked about names at all yet—she says she knows it's early still, but she's been talking names a lot lately, and...” He scratched awkwardly at his scalp, lips pulling into a sort of embarrassed smile. “She wants to make sure she doesn't use the names we wanted to use—since then, I guess _we_ couldn't use them or something.”

Steve hummed in vague agreement. “Yeah, I mean, technically we _could_ , but it might get a bit confusing.” Especially if they used very similar first names—middle names could match up without any real issue, as people didn't usually go by their middle names.

“Right.” Brock grinned. His eyes dropped to his phone again and he pursed his lips. “I mean, she said they've been talking about naming this one for Natasha—like, Nathaniel if it's a boy.” He glanced over at Steve. “And, since you're really close with Natasha...”

Steve grinned in understanding. “She thought maybe _I'd_ want to name our baby for Natasha.”

Chewing on his lip, Brock nodded. He gestured vaguely with his phone. “She also says you and I should get 'first dibs' on names—even though her baby's being born first—because it's our first baby. And they've got to name five babies already.” He shrugged. “I dunno if that makes sense, but it's what she said.”

Steve pursed his lips thoughtfully. Maybe it would actually make more sense to let Laura and Nat and Clint have the first choice, since they must at this point be running a bit low on names they really liked—and family and friend names for honouring. But maybe it would help them make up their own minds if Brock and Steve had some ideas of the names they wanted to use. “But what if we can't agree on anything until her baby's already born?”

Brock shrugged. “Then I guess we forfeit our right to 'dibs', and they use whatever names they like.”

Steve shifted a bit on the bed, tucking the pillow under his head. “Yeah, I guess we would.”

Brock nodded. “She was saying she didn't want to put any pressure on us, make us feel rushed or anything like that; she just wanted to make sure we had the option of picking first.”

Steve smiled. “That's kind of her. Tell her I appreciate it.”

Brock nodded again, pursing his lips a bit as he tapped at his phone screen to send the text. “Telling her we both appreciate it.” He paused, scratching thoughtfully at his stubble.

“All right.” Steve shifted a bit again, getting comfortable.

“It's got me thinking...” Brock tapped his forefinger against the edge of his phone. His eyes cut over to Steve. “For the _surname_...I guess maybe, since we're not bonded or anything, I'm probably supposed give the baby my own name: Rumlow.” He scraped his teeth over his bottom lip. “But—I mean, if you want...” His eyes slid away and a nervous hesitance spiked in his scent.

“Hey.” Steve caught Brock's wrist in a gentle, calming grip. “We can give the baby whatever names we like. We could use both surnames if we wanted. I'd be _honoured_ if you wanted the baby to have my surname.”

Brock flashed him a hesitant smile before dropping his gaze. “Well, um. I guess...that _is_ what I want. I want the baby to be a Rogers. Just—” He worried his lower lip. “Just 'Rogers'. Not—not Rumlow-Rogers or Rogers-Rumlow, just...Rogers.”

Steve gave Brock's wrist a squeeze. “Then the baby will be a Rogers.” He grinned, laughing softly. “That was easy enough—we've got one name decided already.”

Brock smiled, soft and fond and kind of relieved. “Well...I suppose the rest of it doesn't have to be too hard either. I mean, there must be some names you like—some names you think you'd like to use.”

“Well,” Steve admitted, rubbing at his stubble for a moment, “my grand-dam, my dam's dam, and the only grandparent I ever knew... He was named Ian. I always thought that would be a nice name to give a child of mine, if I ever had one.” It meant 'God is gracious'; it was fitting. (Steve had also said, at least once when they were both kids themselves, that he'd name his first child for Bucky: James for a boy and something like Jamie for a girl. But that just didn't really seem like the best idea now.)

“'Ian',” Brock said thoughtfully. “That's some sort of...Celtic, right?”

Steve nodded. “Yeah; Irish, I think. Or Scottish.” He shrugged his shoulder. “Something like that.” There was a lot of overlap, at least when it came to names. It came from all the intermarrying throughout the shared history in that part of the world.

Brock nodded. “That's cool. I like it.” He frowned slightly, shooting Steve a glance. “Is that you, then? Celtic?”

Steve nodded. “Irish. My, uh, whole family's been Irish. Both sides. From way back.”

Brock nodded. “Mine's...sort of Mediterranean, I guess. I don't know as much about the sire's side—I think he was basically Italian—but my dam had a few different things from that part of the world mixed together.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “But anyway, I guess we need to pick out two masculine names and two feminine—since most people do have middle names.”

“What's yours?” Steve asked, realizing in that moment that he didn't know and that he probably _should_. “Your middle name.”

“Marcus,” Brock replied. “It was my sire's name—after his sire who was actually just 'Mark'.” He shrugged, dropping his phone on the bed. “I was never exactly...close with my sire. But my dam must've wanted me to have something of his. I guess.” He shrugged.

Steve, not wanting to prod if the whole topic of Brock's sire was a sore spot, just said, “My middle name's Grant. It was actually my sire's middle name as well: he was Joseph Grant Rogers. But, um.” He bit the inside of his cheek. “I guess I don't even know what your dam's name was...” That was another thing he probably should have already known, wasn't it? It just...it just seemed so strange to be having a baby with someone about whom he still knew so very little.

Brock just shrugged. “She went by Chrissy, but her full name was Christiana Antonia Rumlow.” He laughed softly. “Which, she readily admitted, was a bit of a mouthful.”

“It's nice, though,” Steve commented. “'Christiana', I mean. I think I prefer that to 'Christina' or 'Christine'.” It was so...sparkly. Like crystal. Or stained glass.

Brock nodded. “Sure. It's very pretty. And it could be shortened to 'Ana' too. So, I guess, more options.” His brows drew together thoughtfully as he turned to look at Steve. “Would you want to do that thing with the middle name 'Grant' too, though? Sort of...carry on the tradition.”

Steve twitched his shoulder in a shrug. “Could. Grant's an all right name.” It was an option anyway. He smiled, a little embarrassed. “It means 'great'.”

Laughing, Brock turned his hand in Steve's to tangle their fingers together. “That suits you.”

Steve blushed, looking away. (But, _God_ , he was enjoying the beautiful warmth of affection in Brock's scent.) If he remembered correctly, 'Grant' meant 'great' more in the sense of 'large' rather than 'very good' or 'exceptional', but pointing that out would just invite another sort of teasing. He cleared his throat. “Doesn't 'Marcus' mean 'god of war' or something like that?”

Brock shrugged. “Yeah. I think so: my dam always said it meant 'warlike'.” He grinned, nudging Steve under the covers with his foot. “Guess that suits _me_ too.”

Shooting him a warm glance, Steve gave his fingers a squeeze. “Guess so.”

Grabbing his phone from where he'd dropped it on the bed, Brock set it on the nightstand instead then slid down to lie on his side, facing Steve. “So,” he said once he'd settled, “we should probably talk more about feminine name possibilities—though I guess a lot of names do have both masculine and feminine variations.”

“Well,” Steve replied, pausing to chew thoughtfully on his lower lip, “I guess 'Ian' doesn't really have a feminine variation.” Not unless you counted all the myriad feminine variations on 'John' that sounded and looked nothing at all like 'Ian'. “And neither does 'Grant'.”

Brock hummed in vague agreement. “And all the feminine forms of 'Steven' are kinda...bad.”

Steve laughed softly. “Not so much 'bad' in my opinion as just...really trendy a couple of decades ago, I guess. To the point of being overused.” And it would be at least a _little_ narcissistic to name a kid directly after himself, anyway.

Brock snorted. “Yeah, a bit.” His lips twisted thoughtfully. “For some reason 'Steven' doesn't have that tacky feel to it; it's just...nice.”

One side of Steve's lips curved up in a smile. He readjusted his hold on Brock's hand. “I'm glad you approve of my name.”

Brock snorted, shifting closer on the bed. “I think I 'approve' of pretty much everything about you.”

Unable to come up with a good reason not to, Steve pressed his nose against Brock's, nuzzling a little. Brock's breath brushed warm and sweet against Steve's face. Pressing a little closer, Steve brushed a kiss to Brock's cheek. Chuckling, Brock pulled back a bit, so Steve pulled back as well—physical affection usually seemed to help Brock, but it couldn't very well help if Steve pushed and made Brock uncomfortable. “So,” Steve said, “I mean, for feminine names, I suppose I've always liked my dam's name: Sarah.” He pressed his lips together for a moment before admitting, “It means 'princess'.”

Brock hummed in acknowledgement. “It's not bad. Though not exactly uncommon.”

“True,” Steve admitted. “Maybe it would make a better middle name? I guess maybe you never had that experience, but I was usually 'Steve R' in school, because there'd be at least one or two others in the same class.”

Brock snorted. “Nope. Never been 'Brock R'; I've actually never met another 'Brock' in my whole life.”

“Come to think of it...” Steve frowned slightly. “Neither have I.”

“So you think that's better?” Brock asked, rolling onto his back and turning his head to the side to continue looking at Steve. “Having a more uncommon name?”

Steve shrugged his shoulder. “Sure, I guess. I mean, it certainly wasn't _awful_ having a common one, but I can see the appeal of a more uncommon one.” Even if it was just the convenience of not having to append the last initial all the time in grade school.

“More unique,” Brock suggested. “Sort of feels...more special.”

“Right,” Steve agreed, nodding. “But what really makes a name special, I think, is what it means—and not just in the whole 'etymology' way. Like, for mine: Saint Stephen, in the Bible, was a martyr. The 'First Martyr', he's called.” The actual entomological meaning of the name Steven (or Stephen)—at least according to the internet—was 'crown', which was kind of silly, honestly. “That was important to me, that I was named for someone who laid down their life for what he believed was right. He—didn't back down, didn't recant. That's always felt very...heroic, I guess.”

Grinning lopsidedly, Brock looked away. “Brock means 'badger'.” He shook his head, still grinning. “Not even kidding.”

Steve nudged him a bit in the ribs. “Does that mean you're a Hufflepuff?”

Brock's eyes snapped back to stare, aghast, into Steve's face. “I'm a _Slytherin_ , Steve. Through and through. No fucking question.”

Laughing softly, Steve caught Brock's wrist in a loose grip. “Sorry.” He traced the shape of one of Brock's wrist bones. “Didn't mean to offend you.”

Snorting, Brock turned to look up at the ceiling. “ _You_ sound like a Hufflepuff.”

Steve grinned, brushing his thumb over the soft skin on the inside of Brock's wrist. “I don't see that as an insult, for the record. Inaccurate in my case, because I'm actually a Gryffindor, but Hufflepuffs are awesome.” Bucky'd always said he was a Hufflepuff. Sam too: Sam was 'Hufflepuff and _proud_ '. A whole lot of really wonderful, lovely people were Hufflepuffs. The books and movies just didn't really tend to focus on the ones in that world. Which was sort of a shame. (Though if you missed how awesome Cedric Digory was, you clearly weren't paying attention.)

Brock grunted, shooting Steve a look before looking away again. “Gryffindor, huh? Guess that makes sense.” Yawning, he shifted a bit on the bed. “Aren't most alphas Gryffindors?”

Steve chuckled. “Well, maybe we all wish we were.” Then he grinned. “Though, I guess, the _really_ true alpha would want to go to Durmstrang. Skip that soft Hogwarts school all together.”

Grinning as well, Brock nudged him in the ribs. “Got that right.” Reaching over, he flicked off the bedside light then flopped down on his back. “So,” he said after a moment, “I suppose we could always use a sort of variation on 'Sarah'. Like...'Saralyn' or 'Sarabelle' or something.” He turned his head, looking at Steve in the darkened room. “Y'know, to make it more unique.”

Steve chewed on his lip, brows drawing together. “'Saralyn' isn't bad...but I do think there's such a thing as _too_ unique—at least when it comes to names.”

Rolling to face Steve once again, Brock continued, “I mean, we could do the same with any name, really: 'Ianette', 'Grantiline', 'Brockella'.”

“Oh, my God.” Squeezing his eyes shut, Steve pressed his hands over his face. “ _You_ are not allowed to make up names.”

Brock laughed. “My names are the _best_.” He poked Steve in the ribs. “Though...” he added, sounding more thoughtful, “maybe 'Ianella' and 'Brockette' would sound better—don't you think?”

“Um.” Steve bit his lip, brows twisting unhappily. “Maybe... _marginally_. But 'Brockette' is still terrible.”

Shifting closer, Brock buried his face in Steve's chest for a moment. “Sorry,” he mumbled into the fabric of Steve's shirt. “I should take this seriously.”

Steve stroked his hair. “Hey, we've got time.” They had plenty of time. They certainly didn't have to decide anything right away; they had _months_. They had most of a year. (They had a little less time before Laura's baby would be born, but if Brock and Steve hadn't decided by that point then maybe whatever names Laura, Nat, and Clint chose would just help Brock and Steve narrow things down a little.)

Pulling back a bit, Brock met Steve's eyes sheepishly. He worried his bottom lip for a moment. “I like what you said, though, about a name meaning something—whether it's a literal meaning like 'hope' or a name given in honour of someone special. I think that's important. So I want to do that.” Steve hummed in agreement, stroking his fingers through Brock's hair. “I guess we should take some time to really think about it,” Brock continued. “And talk about it more and—not decide anything too quickly.”

“Good idea,” Steve agreed. “And for the record,” he added after a moment, “'Brockette' sounds like something you'd use for fuel in a barbeque.”

Snorting with helpless laughter, Brock hid his face in Steve's chest again. “Okay,” he said when he could finally breathe enough to talk again, “yeah: that one's definitely out of the consideration.”

o0o

Returning from his morning run with Sam, Steve swung the door open and was greeted with the pleasant smell of brewing coffee and a reasonably content Brock—who was sitting at the kitchen table rather than lying in bed like he usually was when Steve returned. Looking up from his phone, Brock flashed Steve a smile. “Mornin'.”

“Morning,” Steve replied, closing the door behind him and toeing off his shoes. A plate, empty save a few crumbs, lay on the table near Brock. Steve nodded to it. “Stomach wake you up?”

“Oh.” Glancing at the plate, Brock shrugged. “I guess. I mean, I know you usually like to cook for me...but toast was easy.”

Steve dropped his keys on the counter and turned to pull a bottle of orange juice out of the fridge. “I can still cook for you if you're still hungry,” he offered.

Brock offered him an apologetic grimace. “I might be feeling a bit too queasy for anything but toast right now.” Setting the orange juice on the table, Steve laid a hand on Brock's forehead. Laughing, Brock half-heartedly swatted him away. “I'm not _sick_ ; I'm _pregnant_!”

Nodding, Steve poured himself a glass of juice. Holding the bottle up, he asked Brock, “Want any?”

Brock blew out a breath. “I think I'll stick with water right now.”

Orange juice was pretty healthy, with the vitamin C and all, but it wouldn't do Brock any good if he threw it all back up. Steve put the bottle back in the fridge then sat down at the table, taking a sip of from his glass. He frowned slightly towards the coffee maker as it made a burbling sound. Brock was supposed to avoid caffeine for now and he'd also just said he was sticking to water. “Who're you making coffee for?”

Brock shrugged. “You, I guess—but mostly, I like the smell.”

Steve chuckled. “Fair enough.”

Brock shifted in his chair. “So I've been making a list of names—all the ones we're sort of tentatively considering. I want to send it to Laura so they've got some idea what names we're looking at right now.” He wrinkled his nose. “Not that they can't use any of them, but I'm basically just throwing these out in case there's some overlap with the names they're considering; it might help all of us narrow things down a bit.”

Taking another sip of his juice, Steve scratched at the back of his neck where sweat was drying uncomfortably in his hair. “That makes sense”

“So...” Brock scrolled a bit on his phone screen with his fingertip. “Did your dam have a middle name?”

“Yeah.” Steve took a swallow of his juice. “Alicia.”

Brock's lips pursed and he held one finger poised above the phone's screen. “How do you spell that?” Steve spelled it and Brock typed, then read it back to make sure he'd gotten it right. Brock narrowed his eyes a bit at the phone's screen. “You pronounce that 'a-lee-shu'? 'Cause I'd want to say 'a-lee-see-uh'.”

“I think there are a few different pronunciations.” Steve shrugged. “But my dam always said it that way: 'a-lee-shu'.” He shrugged. “And it was her name.”

Brock chucked, nodding. “Fair enough.” He chewed on his bottom lip for a moment. “Maybe that one's a bit too confusing—as far as pronunciation goes—at least for a first name.”

Steve chuckled as well. “It's not my favourite name, honestly—though, I like your pronunciation better.” He shrugged. “Just, the sound of it, I guess.” It sounded more...Latin, maybe? Spanish, Italian, that sort of thing. But it was just kinda...clearer. Though also less soft.

Brock drew a breath and blew it out through his lips. “Okay, so the list I've got... Ian, Grant, Joseph, Mark, Marcus, Sarah, Christiana, _Anna_ , Antonia, and Alicia.” His brow furrowed. “Any more I should add—or ones I'm forgetting?”

Steve pressed his lips together, swirling the dregs of his juice in the bottom of his glass. “'Matthew'. It was my grand-sire's name—my sire's sire: Matthew Grant Rogers. Which...I guess means it is a bit of a family tradition, that 'Grant' middle name.”

Brock nodded as he typed. “Matthew's nice. Another one that's pretty common, but still nice.” Biting his lip, Brock scratched at the back of his head. “Oh, and I guess I should add 'Josephine', too, since...I mean, I like it.”

Steve drained the last of his juice and pushed the empty glass aside. (He should probably have some coffee too; it smelled fresh and inviting.) “Good idea.”

“Um.” Brock's brows drew together and he tapped one finger against the edge of his phone. “Should I put 'Antony' too? You know, the masculine version of 'Antonia'?”

Steve nodded. “Sure.” He waited for Brock to finish typing then nodded towards Brock's phone. “Let me hear the whole list again?”

“All right.” Brock scrolled with his fingertip then read, “Ian, Grant, Joseph, Mark, Marcus, Matthew, Antony, Sarah, Christiana, Anna, Antonia, Alicia, Josephine.”

Steve nodded thoughtfully. “Should we maybe put some feminine forms for 'Mark' or 'Marcus'—'Marcella', maybe? Or...”

“Something like 'Marceline',” Brock suggested. “Or Marcia?”

Steve nodded. “I think I like 'Marcella' the best of all of those. But 'Marcia' is nice too” Shaking his head, he chuckled as he stood up to pull a coffee mug from the cupboard. “Isn't 'Marceline' French or something?”

“We could look up more variants and spellings and stuff,” Brock said as he typed on his phone. “But anyway, this is the list I have now: Ian, Grant, Joseph, Mark, Marcus, Matthew, Antony, Sarah, Christiana, Anna, Antonia, Alicia, Josephine, Marcella, Marcia.”

One side of Steve's lips flickered upwards as he poured the steaming coffee into his mug. “Sounds good.” Replacing the carafe in the machine, he took a sip. “Now all I guess we really need to do is narrow it down a bit.” And decide on actual first and middle combinations that sounded good with 'Rogers'.

“Yeah.” Brock rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck a bit. “I guess I'll send this list to Laura for now.”

o0o

“Should I shave more often?” Brock asked, breath minty fresh, as he slid into bed next to Steve Wednesday night. Steve's feet still hurt with a dull sort of ache from being on them all day, and even though it was just the middle of the week, he was already looking forward to the weekend with probably a little too much eager anticipation. It was so _nice_ , though, to have Brock there beside him at the end of the day. The smell, sight, and feel of Brock was soothing. Maybe having Brock near didn't make his feet hurt less, but it helped distract him from the pain. (Steve mostly tried not to think about how he'd feel—how much he'd _miss_ him—when Brock would no longer need him, when Brock would be able to sleep on his own. Steve just enjoyed the moment he was in. He was pretty sure he was allowed.)

Mildly confused by the question, though, Steve frowned as he slid his arm around Brock, holding his warm, welcome weight against his side. “I don't think I've ever seen you clean-shaven.” And was having a bit of difficulty picturing it. “But it doesn't matter to _me_ ; shave however often you like.”

The side of Brock's mouth quirked up as he settled, resting his head on Steve's shoulder. “Yeah, I know you like me just the way I am, blah, blah, blah—I _know_.” He made a face, chewing on his bottom lip. “It's just...I'm supposed to be an omega now. Omegas don't usually do the scruffy thing.”

“I...guess not,” Steve admitted. “But I'm pretty sure I've seen a few male omegas with actual _beards_ , so—”

Brock grunted, shifting a bit at Steve's side. “Stubble's different, though. It's...scruffier.”

Steve rolled his eyes even though what Brock was saying was basically true. And male omegas with beards did tend to keep them very well groomed. Neatly trimmed and brushed. Oiled, even. And it looked nice, but... Steve wrinkled his nose. “All these _rules_. Alphas can't do this; omegas can't do that. Can't we just all do whatever we _like_?”

“That's anarchy,” Brock deadpanned. “That's how society falls apart.”

Scoffing, Steve rolled his eyes again. “Facial hair grows naturally on your face: I'm pretty sure you're not _legally_ required to shave it off.” He shrugged the shoulder Brock wasn't using for a pillow. “Society can just learn to deal.” It'd survived far larger upsets over the course of human history.

Brock snorted softly, pressing his nose into the swell of Steve's pec for a moment. “Hair grows naturally on most women's legs and underarms, but it's pretty rare to find one who doesn't shave it off pretty regularly. Even among the alphas.” His lips twisted unhappily. “And I guess...as I get farther along in the pregnancy, I don't really want people looking at me funny. Like I'm...some sort of freak.”

Steve swallowed, sad and worried and angry on Brock's behalf. Angry at all those people in his life who'd played even a small part in making him feel like he wasn't acceptable, like there was something _wrong_ with him. Even if they hadn't meant to. The 'society' Brock was so worried about overturning with a little scruffy facial hair demanded everyone fit into simple, easily-recognizable boxes. Neat, predictable—restrictive. Artificial. “But...” Steve finally admitted, fingertips brushing against the roughness of Brock's jaw, “I _like_ your stubble.” He liked the feel of it, liked how it gave Brock a sort of careless, roguish, confident air. A little bit pirate, a little bit cowhand-turned-gunslinger. It suited him.

Brock's expression softened and pleasant fondness mingled with the sharp tang of sadness in his scent. “You're not the only one who ever sees me.” Brock shrugged one shoulder. “You're not the only one who's going to have an opinion about how I look.”

“Maybe I should be,” Steve shot back, grinning broad and a little sharp as he pressed Brock tighter against his side, his other arm coming up and wrapping across Brock's shoulders. Touching his forehead to Brock's he let his eyes fall closed. “I'll beat the shit out of anyone who looks at you funny—deal?”

Brock laughed softly. “I think I might like seeing you beat up other alphas.” He bit his lip, desire swirling in his scent. “Y'know, for me.”

Other alphas had no damned business looking at Brock in the first place much less forming opinions about his appearance. Fingers twisting in the black hair at the base of Brock's skull, Steve kissed him: sudden and a bit too rough. Possessive. Letting go and falling back against the pillows, Steve tried to get his breathing—and his damned _scent_ —under control. He was a rational human, damn it all. Not some instinct-driven beast.

“Gotta admit,” Brock said finally, propped up on one elbow to look at Steve. “Didn't quite expect that to rile you up so much.”

“Sorry,” Steve offered as an inadequate apology, still out of breath.

“Didn't exactly mind,” Brock said, twitching one shoulder and laying down on his side, facing Steve.

Steve rolled onto his side so he was facing Brock as well. “You...like it when I act like an animal?”

Brock laughed, gaze drifting away from Steve's. “Maybe I just— Maybe I like the reminder that I'm not the only one with baser instincts.” His shoulder twitched again. “Not the only one ruled by his hormones.”

Steve wanted to protest that he wasn't in fact 'ruled' by his hormones, probably mostly because he wished so desperately that it were true. But it wouldn't really help the situation at the moment to imply he was better than Brock. More rational. More 'evolved' or whatever. So he just caught Brock by the side of the neck and kissed his forehead. Because that felt right. In an instinct sort of way. Brock made a soft noise, eyes falling fully shut and entire body melting a bit under Steve's touch. Sometimes...alpha instincts could actually be helpful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At least according to one source, 'Brock' means 'badger' not only in the noun sense, but also in the verb, as in: 'pester, harass, annoy'.  
> The names 'Marcus' and 'Mark' actually most likely just mean 'male', both originating from the name 'Mars', who was in fact the Roman god of war.
> 
> Notes on characters and canon:  
> In Earth-616, Sarah Rogers' father was named Ian. Ian was also the name Steve gave to his adopted son, Ian Rogers (originally named Leopold Zola).  
> To my knowledge, Brock Rumlow has no stated relatives in any canon source. The names 'Marcus' and 'Mark' are from Christopher Markus and Mark Gruenwald who are creators of the character of Brock Rumlow in the MCU (Earth-199999) and the mainstream comics (Earth-616) respectively. The name 'Christiana' is also from Christopher Markus, and the middle name 'Antonia' is from Frank Anthony Grillo.  
> To my knowledge, Joseph Rogers never had a stated middle name in any canon universe.  
> At least according to the wiki, Sarah Rogers has the middle name 'Alicia' in Earth-1610.  
> 'Matthew' was the name of Steve Rogers older brother in Earth-9997.
> 
> => Please feel free to offer opinions/suggestions on baby names! ^_^ Even if Steve and Brock don't end up using them, I can probably work them in as names they discuss before coming to a final decision.


	12. Chapter 12

“Did you know,” Brock asked as Steve was pulling his shoes off after work the following day, “that there have been actual scientific studies about alphas and omegas and what specifically makes each sex happy?” Sprawled on the couch with his laptop, he flashed a grin as Steve padded into the kitchen.

Steve shrugged as he poured himself a glass of water. “I guess researchers have to do something all day to earn their big paychecks.” And justify the years they put in at school. More research into mental health couldn't be a bad thing. “Though really,” he added, taking a swallow of water, “we're all individuals, regardless of our biology, so I hope this research isn't being misrepresented to reinforce rigid stereotypes.”

Brock rolled his eyes, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth and eyes. “Yeah, yeah, it's all about, you know, 'in general' and 'more likely' and all that.” His eyes fell to the screen in front of him. “Anyway.” He shifted the laptop on his thighs. “The point is that there's some pretty fascinating stuff about omegas... Did you know, for example, that we're _not_ supposed to do housework?”

“Um.” Steve walked over and took a seat at the other end of the couch, unable to suppress a little smile when Brock pressed his bare toes up against Steve's thigh. Taking a sip of water, he added, “I guess I'm mostly surprised that there's anything about what a certain sex is 'supposed' to do or not do that you didn't already know.”

Snorting softly, Brock shook his head. “I never cared much about omegas—well, I mean, what omegas were and weren't supposed to be all about.” He made a face. “There was the baby-making thing that wasn't going to work for me—you know, so they told me very unambiguously several times, so...” He shrugged, scratching through the hair on the back of his neck and smelling so wonderfully pregnant that Steve wanted to pull him close and just breathe it all in, basking in that scent. But they were supposed to be having an actual conversation at that moment about the things Brock was reading on the internet, so Steve needed to pay attention. “Anyway,” Brock continued, “the bottom line is I mostly know about what _betas_ and _alphas_ are supposed to be all about—most of this omega stuff is new to me.”

Humming, Steve took a sip of water and nodded. “Right.” As much as he kinda wanted to say—again—that Brock didn't have to be anything other than himself... Well, maybe part of who Brock _was_ was someone who cared a whole lot about gender roles. “So, no housework, hey?” That wouldn't actually be a problem. Steve always felt a little weird when Brock was cleaning or had cleaned; Brock was supposed to be taking it easy, after all, and apparently the protective alpha in Steve envisioned that as Brock with his feet up all day. Sipping lemonade or something.

“Well...” Brock grinned. “There've actually been multiple studies that show repetitive, tedious tasks have a negative effect on an omega's overall emotional, mental, and even physical well being.” Steve did his best to suppress a smirk; repetitive, tedious tasks couldn't do much to improve _anyone's_ well being. (But maybe there was something to Steve's alpha instincts insisting omegas, at least _pregnant_ omegas, shouldn't have to do anything difficult. Or unpleasant. Or even boring.) “So anyway,” Brock continued, a grin flickering around the edges of his features as his eyes surveyed the screen, “some doctors and experts on omega health and specifically alpha-omega relationships recommend avoiding situations where omegas are required to perform such menial chores as cleaning—they say to hire outside help if necessary.”

Steve nodded slowly, unable to argue with any of this. “So you're saying you want me to hire a cleaning service.”

Brock wrinkled his nose. “Not really.” He laughed softly, shoulders rising and falling in a small shrug. “Mostly I thought it was interesting—I'm not saying I'm going to just refuse to clean anything, ever, and use this as an excuse.” He gestured to the screen with one hand. “And it might be weird to have someone else come in and mess with our stuff.”

Steve winced slightly. Right. Frowning, he set his glass of water on the coffee table. He could probably handle the expense of a cleaning service, but he and Brock were still working on getting Brock settled, getting him to a point where he felt comfortable and safe. Bringing a stranger into the home might upset that. It probably wasn't worth it, especially since Brock didn't seem to like the idea. Steve shrugged. “I handled all the housework fine on my own before.”

Brock pushed at Steve's thigh with one foot. “I'm sure with me here, though, you've got more than twice as much laundry and dishes.”

“Yeah, well.” Steve shrugged, one hand closing over Brock's ankle and rubbing at the anklebone with his thumb. “I'm a big, strong alpha; I can handle it.”

Brock laughed, brown eyes bright as he shook his head. “You know...” He rubbed a hand over his mouth. “You really can jump on the whole gender roles train when it suits you.”

Steve shrugged again, smiling a bit at being caught out. That was the one bit of societal expectations he'd very much internalized, wasn't it? “I suppose I might do that on occasion.”

Flashing him a grin, Brock dropped his eyes to his computer screen again. “So this article says...'Then what should an omega do all day while their alpha is at work?'” Pausing, he snorted, shaking his head. “That's some real nineteen fifties bullshit right there.”

“Yep.” Pulling Brock's feet into his lap, Steve idly rubbed them. “For once, I one-hundred percent agree with your assessment.” He screwed up his face a little in distaste. Many, many omegas chose to work these days. Even when Steve was a child, it wasn't really anything noteworthy. “What year was this written, anyway?”

“Uh...” Brock scrolled for a moment then snorted again. “Last year.” He scratched at the stubble on the side of his jaw. “Guess maybe it's _possible_ the research is being a _little_ misrepresented—like you said.”

Steve chuckled. “Maybe.”

“But anyway...” Brock shifted a bit, hissing softly.

“All right?” Steve asked, hands pausing where they held Brock's feet.

“Yeah, fine.” Brock waved a hand towards Steve's hands on his feet. “Feels good.”

Steve smiled, hands resuming their rubbing. “I'm glad.”

“So...” Brock continued, eyes scanning the screen, “apparently omegas tend to be happiest when they can engage in some 'creative outlet'. Huh. It even lists cooking here—so I guess that explains Laura.”

Steve hummed thoughtfully. Cooking—at least certain types of cooking—could certainly be creative. “Guess it might.”

Scrunching up his nose, Brock scratched at the dark hair on his forearm. “I don't really have any 'creative' hobbies. Never have—not since I gave up play dough and finger-paints, anyway.”

“Want me to get you some play dough?” Steve teased, prompting Brock to kick at him.

After a moment of glaring grumpily at Steve, Brock's face grew thoughtful. “How about you wait until the baby's old enough and then get the baby play dough and we can all play with it together?”

“That's actually a good idea,” Steve said. “As long as we don't grind it into the carpet.” His mom had always hated that. (Not that he'd ever done it on purpose. It was just...the unfortunate side effect of being careless and forgetful.)

Brock snorted, kicking Steve a bit again. “Right, 'cause I'm sure _we're_ gonna be grinding it into the carpet and the kid's gonna be standing there judging us like, 'I can't believe how immature my parents are.'”

Steve shrugged, lips tipping upwards at one side. “Could happen.”

“I could grind _you_ into the carpet,” Brock grumbled, fond playfulness swelling his scent as his heel brushed over the swell of Steve's thigh and came dangerously close to brushing against his suddenly hardening cock. Dark eyes snapping to meet Steve's own as answering arousal spiked in his own scent, Brock stilled, whispering, “Shit.”

Steve held up his hands, face heating. “Sorry.”

“Fuck that,” Brock muttered, pulling his feet back and moving to set his laptop on the coffee table. “That was at least one hundred and ten percent _my_ fault.”

“Look, I...” Steve scrubbed a hand back through his hair. Brock wasn't even in heat; what excuse did Steve even have here? “I need... Obviously I need to work on controlling my scent.”

Brock rolled his eyes. “ _Obviously_ , you need to get laid.”

Steve wrinkled up his nose a bit. “That's not a 'need'; I can live without it.”

“Well.” Standing up, Brock stretched his arms over his head. “Not sure _I_ can live with you stinking up the place with your alpha horniness all the time—so I guess... _I_ need you to get laid.” He sighed, turning back to look at Steve. “I know this one was my fault. I acknowledge that. And I'm just... I think I'm gonna take a walk.”

Steve bit his tongue but then asked anyway, “Could I come with you?” Brock shot him the most incredulous look and Steve tried to explain: “Out in the fresh air, we wouldn't really smell each other as much.”

Brock sighed and rolled his shoulders. “Maybe. But one of us needs to figure out supper, and I figured you'd want to do that, being the alpha and all.” He screwed up his face a little. “And it's not like it's a dangerous neighbourhood—and it's not even dark.”

“Okay.” Steve stood up as well. “All right. I'll get started on supper then.” He really needed to get changed out of his uniform too. He tried to smile at Brock. “Enjoy your walk.”

Brock hesitated for a moment then walked over and gave Steve a gentle hug, butting his head up under Steve's chin. “You know...I really do like you. Most of the time.”

Steve chuckled, an almost entirely unwarranted wave of relief washing over him (and probably flooding his scent with all kinds of fondness and 'happy alpha' nonsense). He let his hands stroke over Brock's back and through his hair. “I like you too.”

Brock pressed a little closer, burrowing his face into the swell of Steve's pec. He let out a dejected sigh. “I wanna stay and cuddle. But I don't wanna get horny again.”

Steve sighed as well, stroking one carefully apologetic hand up and down Brock's spine. “Sorry.”

With an unimpressed grunt, Brock pulled back to shoot Steve a tired look. “ _My_ fault, remember?”

Steve wrinkled his nose. “Maybe it was more of a team effort.”

Brock snorted, pulling back farther and shaking his head, eyes fond. “Typical alpha, trying to take credit for everything.”

Steve laughed, soft and a little guilty as he let Brock go. “Guess I should get started on supper.”

Smirking just a bit, Brock moved in once again to press a quick kiss to Steve's jaw. Pulling back, he said, “Yeah, do that; I'm probably gonna be hungry.”

o0o

Once they were sitting down to a hopefully filling enough dinner of chicken, pasta, broccoli, mushrooms, and garlic bread, Brock said, “You know, I was thinking about what that one article said about alphas.”

“Oh?” Steve took a sip of his water, trying not to bristle at what looked suspiciously like a lead into someone who thought they knew better than him trying to tell him what to do.

“Yeah,” Brock replied, taking a swallow of his own water and pushing his food around a bit with his fork. “I even looked it up again while I was out to make sure I wasn't remembering it wrong. And it said...” He made a sort of complicated face. “Well, to be happy, apparently alphas need to have sex. It said there've been multiple studies on this, on how alphas who don't have sex regularly are more likely to engage in self-destructive behaviours...and even become suicidal.”

Steve frowned. “Are they sure they don't have the cause and effect backwards there?” He stabbed a piece of chicken with his fork. “I mean...it just seems logical that alphas who are already engaging in self-destructive behaviours would probably be less likely to be having a whole lot of sex—or to think they're having enough.”

Brock scrunched up his nose, poking at his food. “Yeah, maybe.” He ate a bite and took a swallow of water. “But the article suggested that it was important for alphas to feel...appreciated. And that there's always a physical aspect to feeling appreciated hard-wired into the alpha's brain. That...we spend a lot of time as a culture focusing on omegas' need for physical affection and reassurance and all that, but the fact is that it's very important for alphas as well. But we tend to overlook that.”

Steve nodded slowly, thoughtfully chewing his food. “I suppose that's probably all true. But I'd argue it doesn't actually translate into a 'need' for sex. No one 'needs' sex; if an omega in heat can survive without sex—and they _can_ , given the right conditions and support—then you'll never convince me an alpha actually 'needs' sex, ever.” Physical affection, sure. _Everyone_ probably needed a bit of that now and then. But this whole 'alphas need sex' thing just sounded like an excuse for an alpha to demand sex from someone who didn't really feel like it: 'Come on! I'll die if you don't let me knot you!' The whole idea was grossly uncomfortable.

Brock nodded a bit and ate a few bites of food in silence. Finally he said, “But right now... I mean, we can't even manage the physical affection thing without one of us getting horny and setting the other off with the smell of it all, so...” He let out an unhappy breath. “I don't know. I don't want you to _die_ , okay?”

“I'm not going to die,” Steve insisted. “I'm fine.” He laughed, quiet and awkward. “I'm not going to drop dead from 'lack of sex' or even 'lack of physical affection'. That just doesn't happen.”

Brock shot him an unhappy look and displeasure swirled bitterly in his scent. Shoving his mostly empty plate towards the middle of the table, he slumped back in his chair. “Maybe I'm overreacting because I quite literally _can't live without you_.” Rubbing his hand over his mouth, he shook his head, looking away. “Can't fucking _work_ , for one thing.”

Steve shifted uncomfortably in his own chair. “I'll need to take out a life insurance plan, of course. With you and the child as the beneficiaries.” He grimaced, guilt blooming in his gut. “I guess I probably should have started that process already, now that I think about it.”

Brock let out a frustrated breath, shoulders slumping. “It's not actually about the _money_ , Steve. There are—programs, resources, y'know, _things_ available. I wouldn't exactly end up homeless and starving.” He turned unhappy eyes on Steve, and anxiety shimmered in his scent. “But I can't function without you. I can't _sleep_ without you there.”

“I'm sorry.” Leaning forward in his chair, Steve tried to make his scent as calming and reassuring as possible. “I'm not... I don't think the chances of me ending up dead for any reason are very high. At all.”

“I know,” Brock said, shoving a hand back through his hair. “I just— I don't know.” His voice wavered a bit. “I want you to be happy.” Pressing his lips together, he shook his head a bit. “It's the—” He tugged at his hair. “The pregnancy, and these fuckin' shots I have to take. I'm a mess.” He sucked in a shaky breath and let it out, tears shimmering just behinds his eyelashes. “I don't mean to be.”

Something spiked in Brock's scent that Steve was starting to recognize—perhaps not entirely correctly—as 'hold me'. Scents of course could be quite complex, but they weren't actually ever capable of expressing anything so refined as _words_ , just feelings. But Steve was out of his chair before he had any time to talk himself out of it. “Hey,” he said, stroking a gentle hand over the curve of Brock's shoulder. “C'mere. C'mon.” With a soft sigh, Brock stood up and let Steve pull his smaller body into his embrace. “I've got you,” Steve told him as he stroked his hair. “I'm here.”

Brock pressed tight into Steve's chest, mumbling, “I know. Sorry.”

“It's fine,” Steve assured him. “It's okay. Let's...just lie down for a bit, all right?”

“Don't get horny,” Brock warned in a mumble as Steve led him down the hallway to the bedroom.

“I won't,” Steve replied, praying desperately that he'd be able to keep that promise. That he'd be able to keep any arousal out of his scent at the very least.

“Sorry,” Brock said again, sounding—and looking, and smelling—completely exhausted as he collapsed onto the bed. “Really...don't mean to be like this.”

“Hey,” Steve countered, settling next to Brock on the bed and brushing his fingers over Brock's forehead, “I knew what I was signing up for here.” A fond smile tugged at his lips. “And you know, _taking care_ of people is an alpha's primary biological drive; I'm pretty sure they've done hundreds of studies to confirm that. So trust me when I say I _really don't mind_.”

Brock let out a soft huff, letting his eyes fall shut. “Guess maybe I'm the only one who does. I'll try to work on that.”

Steve's brow furrowed with worry even as he tried to lie calm and still next to Brock. They weren't really in the best of circumstances for a discussion, but maybe this was important. It kind of felt important. “You don't like me taking care of you?” Maybe he was doing it wrong. Damn it, he was supposed to be helping. Not making things worse.

Letting out another huff, Brock rolled onto his back. “It's _nice_ , okay? It feels so nice. Like...like I don't have to worry. Like I can let go, and everything will be fine. Like...I'm safe. But I—” Worry swirled in his scent, and he shot Steve a look out of the corner of his eye. “I spent my whole life trying to be independent, trying to prove to everyone—but mostly myself—that I didn't need anything like that. That I could take care of _myself_. So, I mean...it's kind of _scary_. At the same time. Which is of course confusing.”

Sighing, Brock looking up at the ceiling and continued, “Part of me keeps insisting that it's just the pregnancy, just the hormones. That I'll go back to normal eventually. So...I guess, I might as well just enjoy it. 'Cause it _is_ nice. But part of me, well, I mean...part of me kind of wants to stay like this?” He shot Steve another look out of the corner of his eye. “I mean, isn't this what an omega is supposed to be like? How an omega's supposed to feel?” He looked up at the ceiling again. “Maybe this is the 'real me' that I've just been denying all these years; maybe I was meant to be an omega after all. Like, who the fuck knows? I mean, at the very least it could be a _part_ of me, a real, genuine part of me, not just some side-effect of the hormones. Maybe it's not supposed to go away. Um.” He pressed his lips together. “I think I was going somewhere with all this.”

Steve stroked his hand slowly up and down Brock's arm. “I guess I'm glad at least some of it is nice for you. Me taking care of you, I mean.”

“It is,” Brock assured him, rolling onto his side and pressing his nose into Steve's shoulder. “I'm pretty sure you're doing an A plus job of this whole 'taking care of the pregnant omega' thing. I'm just... I'm not...you know, someone who's used to _being_ an omega.”

“I think you're doing okay,” Steve told him, brushing his fingers over the curve of Brock's neck. “I don't have any complaints.”

Brock snorted, warm and a little damp through Steve's shirt. “You _don't_ complain, do you? You wouldn't.”

“Not unless I've got a good reason,” Steve countered. “But I complain about plenty of stuff, actually. Like inequality and the structures entrenched in our society that foster and perpetuate that inequality.” Brock let out a little giggle. Steve made a face. “I'm serious. There's no excuse for bullying, and that—in far simpler terms—is exactly what I'm talking about.” He blew out a breath. “But some of my friends insist I complain far too much.”

“Whatever.” Brock sighed, warm breath tickling Steve's skin. “But you wouldn't complain about me. You just...I dunno, feel too damn responsible.”

Before Steve could formulate some coherent and convincing retort about how he _was_ responsible—that also didn't come across as insulting to Brock, Brock himself said, “I'm just kind of scared, I guess. Because I'm confused. I don't...” He sighed and twisted his lips unhappily. “I never really knew who I was, but at least I had a pretty good handle on who I was _trying_ to be. And I wasn't exactly 'happy', but I was...content. With my life. I guess. But now...” He blew out a breath. “I mean... I don't know how to _be_ this.” He gestured vaguely to his body with one hand. “I'm pretty sure it's what I want, okay?” Tilting his head, he found Steve's gaze. “To be an omega. I just...” He dropped his gaze again, shifting a bit against Steve's chest. “I'm lost. I...don't know _how_.”

“I still think...” Steve tried, “assuming my opinion counts at all...that you're doing a pretty damn good job. And, um, I'm an alpha, so...” He laughed softly. “I'm pretty sure my opinion's _supposed_ to count.”

Brock let out a little giggle, shoving at Steve's chest. “Yeah, except you're the kind of alpha who likes betas and alphas too, so it probably _doesn't_.”

“I like omegas as well,” Steve countered after a moment. “And...well, I think a lot of what I like about you is the...more...omega-like stuff.”

“You like my cunt,” Brock filled in with a little snigger. He shoved at Steve's chest. “Shut up, you do. That's probably, like, your favourite part, if you're being honest.” It...wasn't exactly what Steve would call his 'favourite' part. If he had to pick something. Brock shot Steve a look. “Which you're probably not. Being.” Wrinkling his nose, he looked away. “And you probably shouldn't be, exactly, at the moment. Given how we're not supposed to be getting horny and all.”

Steve let out a soft sigh, keeping his scent as calm and neutral as possible and his thoughts as _clinical_ as possible. He nodded slowly. “I also like how you smell. The whole, uh, 'pregnant omega' smell.” _That_ might actually be his 'favourite'. He scratched one hand through his hair. “Betas never smell like much, and a pregnant female alpha just smells completely different.” Not bad different, of course, but...very, very different. Pressing his lips together, he shot Brock a quick glance, cheeks heating a little. “You actually smell better now than when you were in heat.”

Warm affection swelled in Brock's scent, and he laughed softly, shaking his head. “ _How_ are we talking about this without getting horny?”

Steve shrugged one shoulder, grimacing a bit. “Willpower?”

Brock scrunched up his nose. “Don't think I have much of that kicking around, personally. Maybe I'm just too fucking exhausted.”

Shifting, Steve brushed his lips against Brock's forehead. “Sleep, then. I can clean up the dishes later.”

Brock let out a soft huff. “I need to brush my teeth, though. And what time is it, anyway? Is it even seven yet?”

“Doesn't matter,” Steve argued. “Big, strong alpha says sleep.” He brushed one fingertip over the end of Brock's nose, adding, “I hear good omegas listen to their alphas.”

“Oh gods,” Brock said, squeezing his eyes shut. “Don't _do_ that.”

Steve stilled. “Don't do what?”

Brock opened his eyes just enough to peek at him. “Don't play 'big, strong, _bossy_ alpha'...or I probably _will_ get horny.” Lips pulling into a half-grin, half-grimace, he slid off the bed and waved a hand towards the open bedroom door. “Just go clean up supper while I brush my teeth and stuff.”

“Okay,” Steve said somewhat sheepishly, standing up as well. “Guess you're the boss for now.”

o0o

Brock shifted his weight in the chair next to Steve—then shifted it again. He jiggled his leg up and down. Unsurprisingly, he smelled nervous. Worried. Decidedly unsettled. Steve put his hand on Brock's thigh, squeezing just a bit. Brock shot him a sort of guilty-greatful smile. “Sorry.”

Steve shook his head. “It's all right.” He rubbed the top of Brock's thigh through the rough material of his jeans, hoping it would help calm him somewhat. They were at Doctor Grey's office. A nurse had shown them to an exam room after taking Brock's urine sample.

“I just—” Brock grimaced. He shot Steve a worried look. “I know the doctor said it was okay to come in today instead of yesterday.” A stab of worry lanced Steve's own gut—it was _Steve's_ fault, after all, that Brock's appointment was a day late: Steve worked on Fridays. Brock could have come by himself, of course, but the doctor wanted Steve there too—and Brock wanted Steve there. It was better if Steve was involved in this; they all agreed. And having the appointments on Saturdays just made the most sense for everyone. (But Steve _could_ have gotten time off on Fridays, could have just gotten off an hour or two early, even. It wasn't like he was the was the only person on the planet who could stand around looking imposing.) Brock let out a sharp breath, clearly trying to calm himself. He chewed on his bottom lip. Steve wanted to say something reasonable and helpful—like that if the doctor said it was okay to come in eight days after the last shot rather than seven, then it had to be okay...but too many doctors had been far too wrong about too many things when it came to Brock. Finally Brock spoke again: “It's nine o'clock in the morning, though—not even a whole day. How much difference could it make?”

Steve was about to agree with him when the door opened and they both jumped. Doctor Grey walked in, offering them both a smile as she closed the door behind her. “Mister Rogers, I'm so glad you could come with Mister Rumlow today.” Brock's hand found Steve's on his thigh and he laced their fingers together tightly. Steve squeezed back, as reassuring as he knew how to be. As Doctor Grey took her seat, she nodded towards their joined hands, commenting, “I like to see that: physical affection and reassurance is so important at this stage.”

Swallowing, Steve nodded. “I'm glad to help.”

Smiling, Doctor Grey looked over the open file in front of her. She pointed the end of her pen at Brock. “Your hormone levels are _great_ today, by the way—well within the range we like to see.” Brock let out an audible breath, entire body un-tensing at Steve's side as a wave of relief washed through his scent. “I do still recommend the weekly boosters,” she added thoughtfully, eyes scanning the page before looking up, “just to be on the safe side.”

“Absolutely,” Brock replied immediately. “I mean—I want the baby to have the best chance.”

Doctor Grey's features softened and she nodded. “We all want that.” She gestured to the scale against the far wall. “Might as well take a weight while we're here.”

Brock reluctantly slid his hand out of Steve's to stand up and walk over to the scale. “Shoes off like last time?”

“Yes,” Doctor Grey confirmed, and Brock tugged his shoes off and stepped onto the scale. “So,” Doctor Grey commented once she'd finished sliding the metal weights around, “you're actually a little lighter than last week, which _isn't_ alarming at this point.” She made a note in Brock's file. “It's not too uncommon to loose a bit of weight in the first trimester, and of course we'll be able to keep a close eye on it with these weekly visits.” Pointing to the exam table, she said, “Up on the table now.” As Brock climbed up, she continued, “I'll give you a leaflet on nutrition during pregnancy which will give you some guidelines on the sorts of things you should be eating, how much, and how often—I have one specific to male omegas, which is probably as close as we're going to find.” She flashed Brock a little apologetic smile.

Brock shrugged. “I guess there haven't really been a lot of people like me who've ever been pregnant.”

“There haven't been a lot of people like you at all,” Doctor Grey replied, a slight wry curve to her lips.

Brock grunted softly as she un-looped her stethoscope from her neck. “About the nutrition... Is it true I should be limiting my juice intake?”

“Generally speaking, yes,” Doctor Grey replied. “You don't want to have more than one serving of juice per day, because juice is mostly empty calories. But _orange juice_ is a good source of folic acid, so I certainly won't discourage you from drinking that.”

Brock shrugged. “I guess I've been doing okay then—I've had some orange juice or a citrus blend that contains orange juice pretty much every day. And I do take my vitamins too: every day with breakfast.”

Doctor Grey smiled. “Perfect.”

She listened to his heart and breathing then took his blood pressure. “It's a little elevated,” she commented, making notes in his file. “Which is likely due mostly to stress—you have had quite a lot of that lately. But keep an eye on your salt intake as well.” Brock nodded, vague displeasure swirling in his scent—likely thinking how that was yet another thing he had to do now, yet another annoying restriction he'd never had to worry about before. Doctor Grey pursed her lips, tapping her pen against the page. “You haven't had issues with nausea or vomiting?”

Brock scratched at the side of his neck. “Not...yet? Not really, anyway.” He grimaced. “I guess I was feeling a bit woozy the other morning, but I didn't throw up or anything.”

“Well, let's hope it's not _ever_ , for the vomiting,” Doctor Grey said, making a note. “That isn't fun for anyone. And vomiting is also very much not ideal from a health standpoint.” She looked up from the file. “And how have you been sleeping?”

“Better,” Brock replied, shooting Steve a quick look. “Getting more used to things, I guess.” He grimaced, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I often find I feel tired in the afternoon, though.”

“That's pretty normal,” Doctor Grey replied, nodding. “And it's good to take a nap then if you feel like it.”

Brock's face twitched unhappily, and he shot a look in Steve's direction. “It's always when Steve's at work, though.”

Doctor Grey's features twisted into a sympathetic grimace. “It can help, sometimes, to just lie down—even if you don't fall asleep. Don't make it a 'should' sort of thing: just relax and let yourself _not_ sleep if that's what happens. Maybe listen to music if you find that helps.” Her eyes scanned the file. “We'd also talked last week about you taking it easy—which is still a good idea on the whole, but you can start working out now: I recommend two or three times a week, no more than that. Nothing too strenuous—brisk walking is a good option. Keep yourself hydrated and obviously stop if you start to feel faint.”

“I mostly did weights before,” Brock commented. He actually had a set of free weights that were now taking up space in Steve's increasingly crowded apartment.

“Weights are good,” Doctor Grey replied, “just don't push yourself; this isn't the time to break any personal records. And no more than three days a week.”

Brock nodded, and Doctor Grey tapped the end of her pen against the edge of the paper. “Oh, and—based on your hormone levels today, orgasms should be safe now.”

Drawing a breath, Brock let it out. He didn't look at Steve. “You're sure? Because, I mean, I can—”

“If abstaining is causing you stress,” Doctor Grey explained, “that in itself might be more risky at this point than an orgasm.”

Making a face, Brock shuddered. Worry swirled unhappily in his scent. “Damned if I do and damned if I don't, hey?”

Doctor Grey gave Brock's shoulder a little squeeze. “Let's hope you're not 'damned' at all.” She flashed him a small smile. “We're hoping for blessings all across the board on this one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since my muse apparently is insisting on telling a far more detailed story than I had ever envisioned, I actually have no freaking clue how long this thing will end up being. I apologize to anyone who started reading this story with the understanding that I had any idea what I was doing. :P
> 
> (idk, though...I'm still having fun, so I hope most of you are too.)


	13. Chapter 13

“So,” Steve said as they buckled themselves into Brock's truck once again, “home?”

Brock shot him a smirk, warm amusement swelling in his scent. “Eager to get to the knotting bit, hey?”

Steve spluttered for a second before managing to get out, “That wasn't— I was just asking...where...to drive.”

“Just be grateful I let you drive,” Brock muttered. He flashed Steve a sharp sort of smile. “But you _do_ want to get to the sex part—don't lie.”

Steve let out a breath and tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. After the week they'd both endured, well... “I wouldn't exactly be opposed—”

Brock snickered. But then his brows twisted into a frown. “But weren't we supposed to be hanging out with Bucky today?”

“Right.” Steve nodded. “We're meeting him for lunch.”

Brock shifted a bit in his seat. “Well...” His features softened and he laid a hand on Steve's knee. A gentle hint of arousal curled in his scent. “We could always reschedule—maybe he'd be up for hanging out tomorrow instead.”

Steve frowned, very pointedly ignoring the hopeful zing in his own veins at the way Brock was touching him and how incredibly alluring he smelled. “I'd kind of feel like a real jerk backing out at this point.” He grimaced, unhappy. “It's only something like two hours before we're supposed to meet him.”

Brock made a disgruntled face. He rubbed his thumb over the side of Steve's knee. “I'm not going to do this rushed, Steve.” His brown eyes flickered to meet Steve's briefly and he sighed. And now he kinda just smelled...tired. “Sometimes I'm in the mood for things kinda fast, I guess, but I'm not in that kind of mood right now.”

“Well, that's fine.” There really wasn't any rush, obviously. Steve tried to make his own scent as reassuring and calming as possible. “I mean...” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “I guess rushed sex doesn't really sound all that appealing to me either.”

Brock shrugged, pulling his hand back to fold it with the other in his lap. “Hey, I'm not the one who's desperate to be bumping uglies.”

Steve shot him a confused and mildly offended look, because, what the heck? “Neither am I!”

Snorting, Brock rolled his eyes and turned to look out the window. Annoyance swelled, unwelcome if not quite unexpected, in his scent. “Maybe 'desperate' is a bit of an over-exaggeration.” He shrugged, scratching at his forearm. “But you're pretty damn eager, Steve.”

Steve shifted a bit in his seat, jaw clenching a little. “Because I'm an alpha?”

Brock blew out a breath, turning to shoot Steve an unimpressed look. “I'm not actually trying to be sexist, and I'm not actually going off stereotypes; I'm going off your _scent_!” He rubbed a slightly shaky hand over his mouth. “I might not be the most experienced at reading alphas scents, but I think I've gotten to know _yours_ pretty well—what with all the sleeping together and cuddling and everything we've been doing—and you've been so relieved and happy and pleased and _excited_ ever since the doctor said 'orgasm'.” He threw his hands up. “I dunno why we have to fight about it; it wasn't pissing me off in the slightest until you tired to deny it, tried to pretend like you're so pure or what-the-hell-ever.”

“I don't mean to fight,” Steve tried, gripping the steering wheel in frustration. “And I know I suck really bad at controlling my scent—and I'm trying to work on that. But if I'm happy and excited and all that? It's because the baby's safe—or, saf _er_ , you know.” He twisted his lips unhappily. “I mean, that's a huge weight taken off right there. We can breathe easier.”

Brock regarded him, eyes narrowed. “So this is just about the baby? About the baby's health and well being?”

“Um...” Steve bit the inside of his cheek. “Yes? I mean, I wasn't actually thinking about sex, about us _having_ sex...” Not consciously, anyway.

Brock threw up his hands again. “ _Fine_!” Shaking his head, he shoved a hand back through his dark hair. “That's great, Steve; you know, being concerned about the baby really should be both of our main priorities, so that's great.” He glared at Steve. “That's perfect.” A manic sort of grin pulled at his lips, and the scent rolling off him in waves was anything but happy. “You know, I should really be glad I've got an alpha friend and roommate who _doesn't_ want to knot me. That's pretty godsdamn fucking rare.”

“Wait, I didn't say—”

“Who the fuck needs you?” Brock shot him another glare, folding his arms tight across his chest. (If scents actually could express words, Brock's would be saying 'back _off_.' Among other things. And none of them would be pleasant.) He nodded to the keys where they still hung uselessly in the ignition. “Just drive me home, and I'll jerk a quick one out in the shower—should probably improve my mood, and _maybe_ we won't have to still be fighting when we meet up with Barnes.”

Steve held up his hands. “Look, I don't want to fight at all.”

“Perfect.” Brock clenched his jaw, hard eyes flickering from Steve to the keys and back. “If you're not going to dive...” He snatched the keys. “Move the fuck out of the way and let _me_ drive.”

Steve sat for at least one full second staring at Brock, considering his options. Finally, he just unbuckled himself, opened the door, and got out of Brock's way.

At least Brock still let him get in the passenger side before he took off.

Or, considering the atmosphere in the truck's cab, maybe it would actually have been less painful just to catch a bus home.

o0o

Brock's mood hadn't improved by the time they got back to Steve's apartment. A roiling cloud of frustration, disgust, and disappointment followed him as he shoved his way inside—slamming the door against the wall with excessive force—and kicked off his shoes.

Steve carefully closed the door behind them, trying to calm his own scent as he toed off his shoes. “Brock—” he tried.

Brock shot him a vicious glare. “ _What_?”

Letting out a frustrated breath, Steve spread his hands at his sides. He really wasn't good at this. He knew that. “I don't know what you want me to say!”

Wrinkling his nose with obvious distaste, Brock kicked his shoes into the bottom of the closet. “Why should you need to say anything? I guess, finally, we actually understand each other.” He rubbed at his nose, avoiding Steve's gaze.

“No,” Steve countered, taking a step towards him. “I'm pretty sure we don't.”

“Well, I'm pretty sure we _do_!” Brock shot back, turning a glare on Steve. “You're in this whole thing for the kid—which is _fine_ , okay?” His hands moved angrily through the air. “I never needed you to be into _me_ ,” he added, gesturing sharply to his chest.

“Brock,” Steve tried again, catching Brock's arm.

But Brock jerked away. “Look, why don't you just go do whatever it is _un_ stereotypical alphas _do_?” he demanded, waving a dismissive hand towards Steve. “I need to take a shower.” The thing was, though...Brock had just apparently won the damn argument...but he smelled defeated. Angry too, and _hurt_. A general cocktail of 'distressed and unhappy omega' ('distressed and unhappy _pregnant_ omega') that grated on Steve's nerves like steel wool.

It stirred something protective and primal in Steve, and before he could catch himself, he was growling and shoving Brock—gently, thank God—against the wall. And Brock was staring up at him, breath shaky and eyes wide. Brock's body was warm where Steve was pressed up against him, and a _softness_ bloomed in his scent. A sense of _submission_ that made Steve's nostrils flare. He pressed his nose into Brock's hairline, chasing more of that scent, because it was amazing. “I'm...into you,” Steve whispered, eyes closed against the terror that he might just be making everything worse. Again. (Wasn't that really all he ever did?) But something about Brock's scent had every part of Steve's alpha instincts outright _preening_ , sure he was doing everything _right_. He moved his fingers gently on Brock's arms, hoping he hadn't grabbed him too forcefully, hoping it hadn't hurt. “I promise you I am.”

Brock sucked in a deep, sharp breath, his body trembling against Steve's everywhere they touched. Swallowing, he said, “Okay. Um...I'm not misreading your scent right now, am I?”

Steve nosed just a little more at Brock's temple before pulling back enough to look into Brock's face. “What are you reading?”

“Oh, gods.” Brock scrubbed a hand back through his already standing-on-end hair and thumped his head lightly against the wall. His lips pulled back into a wild-edged smile. “Possessiveness, mostly. I guess.” His hands had settled on Steve's waist, warm through the fabric of Steve's shirt. “A lot of protectiveness too—and, um.” A blush warmed his cheeks. “A kind of...simmering desire.”

Steve nodded slowly, his own cheeks heating a little. “I was,” he admitted, “going on instinct there for a bit.” _Please don't hate me for it_. “I don't...do that often.”

Brock let out a bark of laughter, grinning and shaking his head. “No shit. I kind of _noticed_.” He shook his head again, rolling his eyes a little. “You're, like...fucking terrified of your own alpha nature.”

Ducking his head, Steve took a step back, cheeks heating further as he came more fully back into control of himself. It wasn't really fair to say he was 'terrified'; 'wary' felt like a better descriptor. Shouldn't everyone be a little wary of their base instincts? Weren't humans meant to operate on _reason_ , after all? “I just...” He let out a breath, eyes on the dingy carpet. The alpha nature was often so violent, so volatile and demanding and... _violent_. “I don't want to hurt anyone.”

“And you didn't,” Brock said, catching Steve's hand and trying to catch his gaze. “That was good, Steve. Look, I don't pretend to understand, but...whatever that was that you did...” He sighed, looking away. “It—helped.” And it clearly did, because Brock's scent was so much _calmer_. So much more settled and content.

Brock's eyes sought Steve's again, and Steve looked away, an embarrassed grin splitting his face. Maybe 'embarrassed' wasn't quite a strong enough word, because this was all so completely backwards. “ _I'm_ supposed to reassure _you_ , Brock.”

“Nu-uh.” Brock gave Steve's hand a little tug, so Steve stepped obediently back into Brock's personal space, letting his other hand come to rest on Brock's hip. Soft, warm approval swirled in Brock's scent. “Alphas need reassurance too,” he said softly. The corners of his lips tipped upwards. “I read that on the internet, so it must be true.”

“You still—” Steve's face twitched, halfheartedly trying to grimace. “You were going to take a shower.”

Brock hummed thoughtfully. He flicked his eyes up to meet Steve's. “Maybe I'll just take one later.” His teeth pressed briefly into the softness of his lower lip. “With you.” And, okay, Steve _almost_ caught himself before arousal flooded his scent. But maybe it was okay that he didn't this time. Laughing quietly, Brock leaned into Steve, pressing his face into Steve's chest. “Are we gonna,” he asked, words a little muffled, “actually figure this out?”

“I hope so,” Steve replied, sliding both hands through Brock's hair. Tilting Brock's head up, he pressed a kiss to Brock's forehead. Pulling back, he chuckled softly. “I'm not giving up at any rate.” Biting his lip, he looked away, then met Brock's eyes once again. “I'm stubborn like that.”

o0o

They showed up at Bucky's apartment least twenty minutes early. They were meeting there for lunch rather than at a restaurant, because Bucky wanted to 'enjoy his day off cooking something awesome'. Bucky really was putting in an effort, had probably been planning and preparing for days. So really, skipping out on this for anything less than mandatory hospitalization would've made Steve and Brock gigantic jerks.

And they were kind of trying not to be.

Bucky greeted them at the door with a broad smile, ushering them inside. “Food won't be ready for a bit.”

“We're early.” Steve shrugged one shoulder as he tugged off his shoes. “Didn't expect it to be ready.”

“Am hungry though,” Brock admitted with a tilt of his head and an unrepentant little smirk. “Hey, I'm _pregnant_ —they tell me that means I gotta eat more. Doctor even gave me a whole pamphlet about it.” He pulled the glossy folded paper from the back pocket of his jeans as proof. (Even though he really hadn't had a chance to read it yet. Not that Steve had seen, anyway.)

Bucky looked at a momentary loss, so Steve took Brock by the elbow to steer him towards a chair and said, “Just do what you need to do to get lunch ready, Bucky; I'll get Brock something small so he doesn't faint on us. And I'll try to keep out of your way too.”

Laughing, Bucky shook his head. “Okay, so you're doing that obnoxious alpha 'provide' thing.”

Steve shrugged, offering Bucky an unconcerned, lopsided smile. “I guess I am.”

Snickering a bit, Brock leaned into Steve's side. “He never stops doing it.” He shrugged, one arm wrapping around Steve's waist. “I kinda like it though...”

“Well,” Bucky replied, flashing a smile that was both amused and awkward as he stepped back into the kitchen, gesturing vaguely with one hand, “you know where most things are.”

“So why do you find that alpha 'provide' thing obnoxious, Bucky?” Brock asked as he took the chair Steve steered him too. Sitting at the table made more sense than in the living room because they could still talk to Bucky that way without shouting.

Bucky shrugged, going back to slicing stuff at the counter. “I guess it feels a little...demeaning, maybe? Like alphas think they're better than the rest of us.”

Brock snorted, resting his folded arms on the table. “Aren't they?” Steve shot him a look, because: what?

Huffing softly, Bucky shook his head. “Oh, I guess I can see why Steve likes you.”

“Nah.” Brock scratched at the hair on his forearm. “Steve's always arguing with me, insisting we're all _equal_ and shit.”

“Well, we are,” Steve said, possibly taking the bait but not really caring. He pulled an orange out of a bottom drawer in Bucky's fridge. Oranges were good; even better than apples, probably. And of course they were the kind people could just peel with their fingers—why the other kind even existed was kind of a mystery. Imagine if you needed a knife to open a banana. (Okay, so sometimes you _d_ _id_ , but that wasn't really the point.) “We can be _different_ without any one group being _better_.”

“But alphas are stronger,” Brock said, counting the points on his fingers. “On _average_ ,” he amended, shooting Steve a look. “But it's a pretty observable trend. And healthier—because they've got that immunity thing.” Steve handed him the orange and he took it, with a quiet, “Thanks.” As he started to peel it, his hands were too busy to continue counting his points, but he went on: “They also tend to run faster—usually, a _lot_ faster. I mean...there's a reason all the great heroes of old were alphas.”

“ _Most_ ,” Steve corrected, setting a glass of water in front of Brock. “There's Robin Hood, who was a beta. And Joan of Arc, also a beta. And...” There was at least one in Greek mythology. The Trojan War. Not Achilles, of course. Some name that was hard to pronounce. And also hard to remember, obviously.

“Merlin,” Bucky supplied helpfully. “Who may actually have been an _omega_ , depending on which source you believe.”

“Right.” Brock shot them both a dubious look before dropping his gaze to the orange he was carefully dismantling. “But that's just the thing: we don't actually _know_ most of these people's biological sexes—assuming the people themselves actually existed in the first place.” He wrinkled his nose. “And besides, Merlin was a wizard—or a mystic or a druid high priest or whatever the hell. That's not really the same as 'stab them with the pointy thing' heroes.”

“I'm just going to ignore that possible slight against my intelligence,” Steve said with a lopsided smile, sitting down at the table with his own glass of water, “and point out that you're right: we don't really know the sex of most of the 'heroes of old'. It's not like we have DNA samples to test, so most of the 'alphas' in those stories could very well have been betas for all we know. It's very possible that people down through the years just assumed they were alphas and added or even changed those details.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed, nodding. “I was reading something a while back about this whole debate in scholarly circles about King Arthur—you know, when I was a kid they always said he was an alpha, but apparently that's a _very_ new addition to the tale, and the oldest versions don't mention anything beyond him being, well, obviously male.” He shrugged, looking over at where Brock and Steve sat at the table. “It's very possible he was a beta.”

“Pretty sure King Arthur was an alpha,” Brock countered, pausing to chew a section of orange. “I mean, of _course_ he was? That's probably why they didn't bother to say. If he'd been a beta and managed to do all that, then _that_ would be worthy of note.”

“Wow.” Grinning, Bucky shook his head. “Now I'm the one getting insulted.”

“Hey, no offence.” Brock spread his hands, chuckling softly. “But the whole reason we know Joan of Arc was a beta is that people made _such_ a big deal out of it, right? And it's pretty much the same with Robin Hood: he's tricky, like betas tend to be. And the world is pretty different now than back in the days before they'd even invented gunpowder. Used to be the only way to defeat an alpha if you weren't also an alpha was to be _very_ clever and have a _lot_ of friends.”

“I suppose that's true,” Steve said, features twisting unhappily at the thought. He took a sip of his water. “But I don't really think the true measure of a person's worth is how many people they can kill.”

“It isn't,” Brock agreed, pointing at him with one finger. “But it's how many people a person can _protect_. Or at least...” He shrugged. “That's probably how most people measured it back when wolves and sabre-tooth tigers and fire-breathing dragons were constantly swooping in to kill your cattle and carry off small children.”

Steve didn't want to get onto the subject of 'fire-breathing dragons', because Bucky always teased him, but of course Bucky himself snapped up the bait, saying, “Dragons, hey?” He shot Steve a wicked grin. “You should really ask Steve about dragons, Brock. He believes they were actually real.”

Brock's eyebrows twisted. “Uh...weren't they? I mean, they still _are_ , actually—y'know, Komodo dragons. And bearded dragons, or whatever.” He scrubbed the fingers of one hand through the hair on the back of his head. “They just don't tend to fly. Or carry off children.”

“Or breathe fire,” Bucky added.

Brock shrugged. “So maybe the fire-breathing part was a bit of artistic licence.”

“Okay, but,” Bucky said, continuing to work, “ _Steve's_ dragon breathes fire.”

“ _My_ dragon?” Steve asked, lips curling up at one side in amusement.

Wrinkling his nose, Bucky waved a hand at him. “The...leviathan. 'Can you draw one out with a hook?' and all that.”

“Well yes,” Steve finally admitted. “Leviathans breathed fire.”

Instead of jumping on the 'tease Steve' bandwagon (for once), Brock just said, “Huh,” and nodded slowly. After a beat he added, “Well, there you go: fire-breathing dragons. All the more reason we needed alpha heroes to survive. Not much even an army of betas could do against a dragon.”

A slight frown tugged at Steve's brows. “I don't think an alpha, no matter how heroic, could have done much about a leviathan. 'Think of the battle,' the Book of Job warns. 'You will not do it again!' Which...either means that no warrior who faced one would dare try again...or that no warrior who faced one _could_ try again because all of them were dead.”

“Okay, so you get however many alphas you can,” Brock argued, “and all the betas too. Pretty sure if you have enough people and weapons, anything can be killed—or at least scared off.”

“I suppose,” Steve said, shrugging. “ _Someone_ must have survived to tell the story at all.”

“It's not all that hard to kill a crocodile,” Bucky put in. “And that's what 'leviathans' were. Probably.”

“Crocodiles don't breathe fire,” Steve pointed out, even though Bucky already knew it was what he was going to say because they'd had this exact same argument before.

“Maybe it's like Brock said,” Bucky suggested. “'Artistic licence'.”

Steve made a face. “This is the Bible. The inspired Word of God. Pretty sure 'artistic licence' wasn't allowed.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Metaphor then—metaphors are allowed in the Bible.”

“Right.” Sighing, Steve pinched at the bridge of his nose. “It's possible.” It wasn't very _likely_ in this case. But...possible.

“But then...” Bucky mused, turning back to the food he was preparing. “There are also unicorns in the Bible.”

Brock turned a stunned sort of expression from Bucky to Steve. “Wait, what?”

“In...one translation,” Steve explained. “Something...um, unclear, got translated as 'unicorn'. At the time of that very early English translation, I guess they still thought unicorns were real.”

“Huh,” Brock said. He ate a piece of orange. “What's it translated as in the more modern translations?”

“Uh...'wild ox', I think,” Steve said.

“I like unicorns better.” Brock flashed Steve a grin. “Maybe they were right the first time.” Offering Steve an expectant look, he asked, “So what does it say about unicorns, anyway?”

Sighing and rolling his eyes just a bit, Steve pulled the passages up on his phone. “It's not in my Bible, for the record; it's in the King James Version. My Bible's Catholic, and we never had unicorns.” At least, not that he knew of.

“Yeah, well, I want unicorns,” Brock said, nudging Steve's foot under the table. “So go with that 'King' version.”

“Okay,” Steve said, “here's one. In the book of Job chapter 39: 'Will the unicorn be willing to serve thee, or abide by thy crib? Canst thou bind the unicorn with his band in the furrow? or will he harrow the valleys after thee?'”

Brock's features twisted. “Okay, and in English that means?”

“That _is_ English,” Bucky pointed out with a smirk.

Brock snorted. “Old as fuck English.”

“Actually...it's _modern_ English,” Bucky insisted. “That was 1611, so it's not even 'middle English' at that point.”

Brock wrinkled his nose. “Um, sure. I mean, it sounds totally 'modern' and shit.”

Steve chuckled softly. “It's, uh—well, it's not what we'd probably call 'modern' as in 'modern times' or whatnot, but it's certainly not 'Old English'. It's just...archaic.”

Brock's eyebrows twisted incredulously. “Doesn't 'archaic' mean 'older than old'?”

Steve laughed softly. “I dunno.” He scratched his fingers through the hair on the back of his head as he thumbed at his screen to pulled up the same passage in the RSVCE. “Maybe not in this context—anyway, the translation I read, which is a more modern one, says: 'Is the wild ox willing to serve you? Will he spend the night at your crib? Can you bind him in the furrow with ropes, or will he harrow the valleys after you?'”

Brock still frowned, but finally said, “That's not really all that different in the wording, but...it's asking if you can use this...creature—whatever it is—to plow your fields and stuff.”

Steve nodded. “That's right.”

Brock snorted. “Well, if it's an ox, all you gotta do is _tame_ it; people used oxes for that shit all the time.”

“Oxen,” Bucky corrected.

Brock rolled his eyes. “Whatever. But the point is...” He tapped a finger against the edge of Steve's phone. “I think 'unicorn' makes more sense. Because—well, you _can't_ tame a unicorn. No one ever has.”

“Steve,” Bucky said resignedly but also with amusement and fond exasperation, “I think you found someone who's actually crazier than you are.”

“Hey.” Brock spread his hands. “I'm just like that guy on the X-Files: I want to believe.”

“Wow, Steve,” Bucky said, placing large plates of—oh, apparently they were having sushi. (Steve really hadn't been paying much attention, had he?) Anyway, as he placed them on the table, Bucky chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Not sure if I'm happy for you or if I pity you.”

Offering him a lopsided smile, Steve said, “I'd be happy with a little of both.”

Laughing softly, Bucky set another plate of sushi rolls on the table. “You got it, then.”

“Maybe we should name the baby 'Job',” Brock said, and both Steve and Bucky turned to look at him. Shrugging, Brock rubbed at the back of his neck. “Dragons and unicorns—sounds like my kinda guy.”

“Yeah, but.” Bucky pressed his lips together for a moment. “It's spelled like the word 'job'. No one would ever pronounce it right.”

Brock scrunched up his nose. “What if we called him 'Joe' for short? _Or_ —we could name the baby 'Job Joseph' and call him 'Jo-Jo'.” He shot Steve a grin.

“Uh,” Steve responded articulately. Was Brock making serious suggestions or just kidding around? “I think 'Job' could work as a middle name.”

“I thought you were gonna name your firstborn after me!” Bucky said, placing yet another plate of sushi on the table and cocking an unimpressed eyebrow at Steve. Brock shot Steve a sort of 'why didn't you tell me this?' look, but thankfully didn't say anything. “And,” Bucky continued, “'James Job' just sounds dumb, in my humble opinion.” He made a face. “Also, it's hard to say.”

Steve quirked an eyebrow back. “You don't even like the name 'James'.”

“Yeah, but—” Bucky shrugged, grinning. “I like feeling important.”

“We could name the baby 'Barney',” Brock suggested with a grin. “You know, from 'Barnes'.”

“That's Clint's brother's name,” Bucky countered, turning to pull soy sauce and wasabi from the fridge. “'Barney'. And it's also awful.” He shot Steve a pleading look. “Don't name your poor, innocent child 'Barney', Steve.”

“Some spelling of 'Jamie',” Brock put in, “could work as either masculine or feminine.” He dropped his gaze, wickedness teasing at the corners of his smile. “And it could serve a double purpose of honouring that King that put unicorns in the Bible.” Before Steve or Bucky managed to react, he raised his gaze again, eyes narrowed slightly and brows twisting, and said, “Is that the one they call 'King Jimmy' in 'Pocahontas'?”

“Uh...yeah,” Steve answered. “Same guy.”

“Huh.” Brock shrugged. “Sorta expected it to be some _other_ king named 'James'.”

Bucky wrinkled his nose. “Yeah, well, nearly everyone down through history is named James. It's annoying.” He laid out three place settings, complete with chopsticks. “But I really do think you should keep your promise, Steve; promises are _important_ , Steve.”

Steve made a soft, helpless sound in his throat. “Bucky, we were, like, ten.”

Heaving a wildly dramatic sigh, Bucky turned back to the fridge. “I guess I see just how important I am to you, Steve. And just how important you consider keeping your word.”

Steve sighed as well, rubbing a tired hand over his face. “Well. I can't name the baby 'Bucky', because that would get really confusing.”

“Besides,” Bucky said, placing an open jar of pickled ginger on the table next to the soy sauce, “it's a _nickname_ , and you can't give your kid a nickname as an actual _name_ , Steve.”

He could, of course, but... Steve shrugged. “Guess I'm not really a fan of using nicknames as actual names either.” He shot Brock a look.

Brock wrinkled his nose a bit. “Guess maybe it depends on the name, but if it sounds too nickname-y—like 'Billie' or 'Joey' or even 'Kate'—then, yeah; I agree: better to give the kid a real name and make that nickname a _nickname_.”

Steve couldn't help grinning, and he looked back and forth between Brock and Bucky. “Did we—? Did the three of us just actually all agree on something?”

Snorting softly, Bucky rolled his eyes and muttered, “It's not really _that_ noteworthy.”

Brock nudged Steve's foot under the table. “I can disagree, try to insist we name the baby 'Brocky', if it'd make you more comfortable.”

Flashing Steve an impish smile, Bucky leaned in close to Brock's ear to stage-whisper, “You totally should; he loves it when people argue with him.”

Steve's mouth fell open. “I do not!”

Bucky winked at him as he slid into his chair. “Sure you do—gives you a good excuse to pull out all that righteous indignation.”

With an annoyed huff, Steve slumped back in his chair and muttered, “I do not.”

“See?” Bucky grinned like he'd won or something. Steve rolled his eyes.

Brock shot Bucky a dubious look, eyes cutting over to Steve and then back. “Is that what 'happy' looks like on him?”

“Well the thing about Stevie,” Bucky said, “is that he's only truly happy when he's miserable.”

“That's—” Steve made a frustrated sound in his throat and sat forward in his chair once again. Bucky really already knew this, so he was only arguing for Brock's sake. “I'm only happy when I'm _happy_ ; I'm just, I suppose, not as good as the average person at convincing myself important things don't matter and making myself happy by ignoring them.”

“Worse than a dog with a bone,” Bucky muttered, straightening up and shaking his head. “Never lets a single thing go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Can you draw one out with a hook?' is a paraphrase of the first part of Job 41:1.  
> Steve's assertion that leviathans breathed fire comes from Job 41:19-21: 'Out of his mouth go flaming torches; / sparks of fire leap forth. / Out of his nostrils comes forth smoke, / as from a boiling pot and burning rushes. / His breath kindles coals, / and a flame comes forth from his mouth.' (RSVCE)  
> 'Think of the battle; You will not do it again!' is from Job 41:8 in the RSVCE.
> 
> The verses Steve reads about unicorns are Job 39:9-10. Other references to unicorns in the KJV appear in Numbers 23:22, Numbers 24:8, Deuteronomy 33:17, Psalm 22:21, Psalm 29:6, Psalm 92:10, and Isaiah 34:7.
> 
> The English of 1611 (when the King James Bible was published) would be more accurately (or at least more specifically) classified as “Early Modern English,” “Early New English,” or “Elizabethan English.” It's most certainly not “Old English” as that era ended nearly six hundred years earlier with the Norman Conquest in 1066.
> 
> Notes on characters and canon:  
> Charles Bernard “Barney” Barton is the older brother of Clinton Francis “Clint” Barton in Earth 616.


End file.
